maintenance

there was a place

where she got her hair shampooed,

a place

where she got it colored,

then to the French

place

where a man in a silk shirt

straightened

and cut it.

it was a long day

every two weeks, and then

it was time

for her nails,

the pedi and mani,

the facial and massage,

and at last the esthetician,

before hitting

the tanning parlor for

a spray job.

who knew?

i had no clue.

the errant text

as she sits in the chair

at the beauty parlor, she texts

her husband,

asking what color would

he like her hair to be

this time around.

she doesn't realize that

she's accidentally texting me,

not him. but i play along.

i tell her let's go with blonde

this time, with curls,

maybe a little blue tint

on the ends.

she says, oh my, okay. sure.

why not?

agreeing that a change 

would be fun.

see you later sweetie.

thanks again.

white dwarf star

the YouTube

genius goes on and on

about

how the world will end

in a few billion years.

it's fascinating,

as he talks about the sun,

how it will burn out

eventually and become

a white dwarf star.

turning the earth into ashes.

so what am i getting up

so early for, working so

hard for, saving money

and being a good person,

why am i not eating more cake?

hold the door, please

there are good doors

and bad doors,

ones that open easily and others

that you have to push

or kick at the bottom

to get them open.

some with locks, some

with broken keys still stuck.

there's a bell attached

to some, maybe a window.

some you have to knock.

some say do not enter,

while others give directions

in case you're lost.

some tell you who or what

is behind the door,

some need oil on the hinges,

some need paint to clean

up the scuff marks.

some doors lead to opportunity,

whether work or love,

while others are exits

once closed there's no going back.

all your life you're going

in and out of doors.

hold it for me, would you?

the class valedictorian

i see him

in the grocery store,

ringing

up groceries.

i'm next in line.

he was a genius

in high school.

MIT bound.

perfect SAT scores.

what's happened

to him?

how is it that he's

so smart

and now bagging

milk and eggs,

weighing

bananas and asking me

if i want paper

or plastic. he stares

at my

bottled water

then explains to me

the geophysics

of polluting the environment

with plastic.

going into a long diatribe

about

ecology and science.

so, i say

paper, please.

he still has it after all.

Frenchy the chicken

i should have never

named

the chicken.

made it a pet of sorts.

it was a mistake, because

now i'm hungry

and she's staring at me

with those beady eyes.

was there love?

no, but

how can i possibly

kill a chicken with a name.

the permanace of love gone sour

in a bucket

she collected her tears

and left

it at my door step

with a note

attached,

saying,

i'm done crying over

you.

see what you've done

to me

with no remorse,

no regret.

you broke my heart

wrung out every tear.

i hope you're happy now.

i'll never forgive you, 

or forget.

slip sliding away

as the sun burns

out,

we keep at it, as if everything

is forever.

we paste another

memento

into our scrap book,

ink our arms

and legs.

carve our names into trees

and wet cement.

we want

to be remembered,

be important,

to be forever in someone's

heart.

not forgotten.

desperately we hold on

to the ephemeral,

with nails dug

into the cliffs of life,

we cling.

under the skin

you don't want

a splinter.

though small, it's a painful

thing.

easily infected.

so hard to get out

from under

your skin.

it turns red and purple,

swells

with infection.

just a tiny sliver of

broken

wood, and yet

it's enough

to ruin your day.

waterfront property

once an abandoned

junkyard

where people would dispose

of washers and dryers,

rusted cars, it was now

waterfront property.

the storm sewers

were diverted onto the field 

in front of the apartments.

eventually it filled up

becoming a mud pie. but

in time it was three feet deep

with stagnant water.

birds flew in.

a turtle or two appeared.

but you didn't want to be down

wind of it, sitting on

your balcony.

real estate prices rose.

they called it Lake Side

and named the streets Heron

and Admiral.

nautical type names.

it was real estate genius

101, until malaria broke out.

number two pencils

the box of number

two pencils

on my desk have been there

for about five years now.

twenty in a pack.

i've taken one out,

sharpened it, and occasionally

use it to reach an itchy

spot on my back.

it has a nice long reach.

i may have these pencils forever.

never using a single one,

just the one i use to find

the itch, and scratch.

let's not talk anymore, okay?

i used to like to push

her buttons,

no,

not those buttons,

but her

mental buttons.

to stir her up.

i knew how to get under

her skin,

and she knew how to get under

mine.

we could be around each

other for about an hour,

before we'd

have to call a truce,

make a pact of silence

for the rest of the night.

A2 Milk

no,

i don't want any soy milk,

or almond milk,

or cashew milk,

or coconut milk,

or goat milk.

here's what i want.

a tall cold glass of cow

milk.

whole.

not skim, not two percent.

none of that

A2 please in a gallon

glass jug.

will you still love me tomorrow

when it rains,

she's worried that her hair will

go frizzy.

that all the effort she put

into straightening

each blonde strand will

go for naught.

will you still love me

in the morning with my

frizzy hair, she asks.

it's really crazy then.

sure, i tell her, rubbing my

bald head,

why not.

moon glow

in space

there won't be any of this

crime and trouble.

there'll be

peace at last,

love

and harmony.

no worries at all.

in space we'll be free

from all our

faults, our sins

and guilt.

it'll be different up there,

you'll see.

just wait.

we can start over up

there, give

humanity a jump start.

keep dreaming.

the best years of your life

we spend

nearly 26 years

of our life

asleep,

the study says.

some think it's a waste

of time,

while others like me,

claim that those

are the best years

of our life. i can

honestly say that i've

enjoyed all 26 of mine.

the salad dressing packet

i nearly chip a tooth

trying to rip open a salad

dressing packet.

i stab the thing with a plastic fork,

a plastic knife

i get out a pack of matches

and try to burn

it open.

no dice.

i stomp on it, i drop a

brick on it.

still it won't open.

i give up and fling it

across the street

where a truck runs

it over, still unopened.

finally i see

a black bird pick

it up in it's beak

and fly away.

good luck with that,

i yell out. bon appetite.

Hitler's younger sister, Judy

Hitler's younger sister,

Judy,

happens to be

the president of the condo board.

nine years in a row.

i'm on her list.

i'd say i'm on her bad side,

but that is

the only side there is.

why aren't you watering

your plants and bushes

in front of your house?

she asks me, stamping her foot.

i see that one is dead.

it's dead, i tell her because

there's no freaking spigot,

no hose, no access to water,

in front of these connected houses.

plus

i'm paying the condo association

five hundred dollars a month 

to take care

of landscaping.

it gets worse.

she  tells me she's a volunteer,

that she doesn't get paid,

i tell her big whoop,

do you want a medal or a chest

to pin it on,

and then a parade.

her eyes grow dark.

are you still towing cars

in the middle of the night, i ask her.

if they don't follow

the rules, yes. they get towed.

you must obey the rules.

why is it so hard for you to be nice?

this is a very small community,

we all know each other.

why not a warning?

no, no warning.

one strike and you're out.

you must follow the rules,

she says repeatedly,

before marching off with her

clipboard, doing a goosestep.

let's make a deal

after buying the car,

and waiting

four months for it to be built,

i still get a daily

update on new cars,

asking me to trade it in

for another model.

sales are on.

inventory is up.

we'll beat the price on

all other dealers.

come on in. we're right

off the interstate,

look for the big red balloon

and barbeque pit.

we're dog and kid friendly.

bring a friend.

bring your check book.

now she's eating breakfast

i only have three hundred

more pages

of the Sylvia Plath biography to go.

thank God she

only lived for

thirty years

and not sixty.

the author would of had

to make volumes one, two and three.

at last, she's out of college,

five hundred pages in

and in England.

whew.

i read the next ten pages to discover

what she had

for breakfast, eggs, waffles

and bacon, coffee

and orange juice, and what

dress she was going to wear

that day.

she has a headache now

and is lying down

on a bedspread her mother sent

her because the heating

in England was sort of lame.

for a good time call

i see my ex wife's phone

number

inked onto a wall

in the men's room.

for a good time, call, it

said. with a giant

smiley face beside it.

fortunately i had a sharpie

pen with me

and crossed out

the word good,

and put a black eye on

the smiley face, with

broken teeth.

the date went terribly awry

she called herself

Connie,

but when i opened her purse

as she

was powdering her

nose,

i saw on her driver's license

that her real name

was Felicia.

there was a wanted poster

in there too

with her picture on it.

what else

didn't i know i wondered.

later, she asked me

if i was in her purse 

while she was in the bathroom,

and i told her yes,

but because i was looking

for a mint

or a stick of gum

to freshen my breath

before kissing her.

how dare you look in

a woman's purse, she said.

and started for the door.

mad as a hornet.

i'm leaving. don't ever

call me again.

okay, okay, i said.

take care Felicia.

i'm not Felicia anymore,

i'm Connie and if you ever

call me that again

i'm coming back, and it won't

be pretty.

then she slammed the door.

the back yard pool

with the garden hose

unraveled,

i fill up

the plastic pool

in the backyard,

ten inches deep and

above

ground of course

for a leisurely

afternoon of bathing,

but before i can put on my

red speedo

and grab my

pina colada

there's four yellow canaries

in the middle

floating

and flapping their wings.

excuse me,

i tell them as i slip

in, trying

not to spill my drink.

all in good time

i'll get to it.

the screen door.

the lock,

the back porch

boards,

the fence at the end

of the yard.

i'll rake the leaes.

i'll fill the bird feeder,

i'll walk 

the dog.

i'll get out my tool

box 

and take care of things.

just five

more minutes, okay?

where's my stretch pants revival

there's something about

regular

church attendance

that makes you eat a lot.

maybe it's the guilt

and the nervous tension

of sidling up to God.

there's a lot

of pot luck dinners,

and

lunches, and

pancakes at breakfast

for the morning prayer

meeting before church.

a lot of sugar

and syrup.

pies and cakes. potato

salad in giant

yellow bowls.

there's

stretch pants going on.

clothes that fit like tents.

it's a feast,

a festival, a  revival,

it's praise 

the Lord and pass

the gravy and

biscuits, please.

what every happened

to fasting? redacted?

the kitchen is closed

i get to the diner

too late.

the closed sign is hanging in

the door,

but i see Mary

in there filling up

salt shakers

and ketchup bottles.

i knock on the glass.

she comes over and mouths

the words we're closed.

i take out a twenty

dollar bill and show it

to her.

she opens the door.

two eggs over easy

i tell her, bacon

and hashbrowns, coffee.

she smiles and says

the cook is gone and the

kitchen is closed.

what about a stale

muffin and Sanka?

i tell her sure.

i was going to call you

i almost called you,

but i got distracted by a fly

that somehow got into the house.

he was quicker

than i am and seemed to be

toying with me,

buzzing around my head,

around the light.

i chased him through

the rooms,

swinging a newspaper at him.

finally, i opened a window

and out he went.

where was i, oh right,

i was going to call you.

maybe tomorrow.

the bent spoon

i bend a spoon

opening a can of paint.

it's forever warped,

like a few

forks and knives,

never going back to their

original shape.

but it's okay.

there's no one here

to yell at me about it.

i put it back into

the drawer with a smile

on my face.

every other weekend

there was the divorce dog.

the divorce

vacation.

the cruise.

the toys.

the mall, the bikes

and fishing.

all of it packed into

your turn

at the wheel

every other weekend.

did it help.

no.

they still expect that kind

of attention,

twenty years

later.

pin this list to my collar

i've looking for something

in the grocery store,

but i've forgotten what it was

i was looking for.

it seemed to warrant a trip

up the road to buy it,

but for life of me

i don't know what it is anymore.

i guess it'll come to me 

at some point.

i'll just wander a little more,

i have three more hours

before they closing time.

it might be time for the hand

written list pinned

to my collar.

craving for crunchy

i'm having a craving for

something crunchy,

but sweet.

something i can dip into

a cup of tea.

just one small thing to curb

the craving.

not from a box, or a bag

at the store.

nothing processed or invented

by scientists in a lab.

something homemade,

warm,

right out of the oven.

maybe with nuts in it,

chocolate.

just one thing. one small

thing.

i think they call it a cookie.

i look up the recipe to make one,

just one though.

the sewing room

when was the last time

you saw

someone with a needle and thread?

for me

i think it was about

forty-five years ago

when my mother patched a hole

in my jeans.

she had a 

Singer sewing machine too.

she kept it on

a card table

in her sewing room, where

the walls were

decorated with puzzles

that she put together

and laminated.

she could sew anything.

she had enough yarn to cover

ten sheep. she had those weird scissors,

that she used to trim

photographs for her albums,

and mounds

of thin patterns

that she'd use to make dresses

for my sisters.

she was a regular Dolly Madison,

i mean Betsy Ross.

maybe i can fix my jeans

this time.

some soy milk and kale

i see three women

leaning

against the wall of the coffee shop.

they look pale

and tired.

wane. 

are you okay, i ask them.

they look up at me

and sigh.

yes, we're fine, we're

just a little tired.

we walked from the car

to the door,

almost twenty yards.

we need to rest before we 

go in.

we'll be fine, just fine.

we're vegans.

could you get us some soy

milk while you're

in there,

and some kale?

we have a protest to go to

later.

we're trying to ban meat

of all kinds,

and save the whales.

farm fresh eggs

i buy one chicken

because

i'd like a fresh egg in the morning.

then

i feel bad for the chicken

so i get it a friend,

a rooster.

i call them Bonnie and Clyde,

and then i start thinking about

milk,

so i give in and buy

a cow, Gretchen, it's a tight fit

in the townhouse back

yard, but i make

it work.

i go out and get a bucket

and small wooden

stool.

i'm in business, but i have

to get up

so early now. thankfully

Clyde helps with that.

the new NBA

i turn on the tv,

searching for something i haven't

seen.

oh, there's a game on.

or is it a fight.

hard to tell with

all the pushing

and shoving, posing,

and yelling.

it's millionaire street ball

on live tv.

it's either dunk

or shoot a three.

pound your chest,

then scream to the crowd

look at me,

look at me.

church pancakes

i carry a sack of flour

and a bag

of sugar up to the church

for the donation box.

Father Smith sees me,

and asks me, what no

eggs?

i go back to get a dozen

eggs.

get some vegetable oil

too, he yells at me,

as he brings out the bowl

and spoon.

oh, and maple syrup.

organic, please.

just saying

do we really need to do

corrective

surgery on tom boy girls,

or boys that

like the color pink.

shouldn't we wait it out,

and leave out

the shrink.

let them be who they're

born to be,

let nature take its course.

and put away the knife.

pendulums

as pendulums

do

we swing back and forth

on issues.

ideas

and thoughts

once

solid 

are now old school,

ready

to be discarded

for something new,

though

not improved.

starving on Park Avenue

after walking

ten miles

in bad shoes from

the Roosevelt

Hotel

to MOMA,

we're hungry.

we check

yelp for a nearby restaurant.

something with at least

one star.

we may die

if we don't eat something.

it doesn't have 

to be Michelin rated,

we don't care

anymore.

we just need food,

don't worry about a fork

and knife,

or spoon.

that's what fingers are for.

look, there's a hot

dog stand.

quick before he closes

his metal bin.

and then what happened?

don't bring me

your bad news, your latest

trouble,

how you broke a nail,

your plumbing

issues,

and street parking.

don't tell me about

the price of eggs

and milk,

or how taxes are

killing you.

how your parakeet

keeled over

when you blew him

a kiss.

leave your crying towel

at home.

i know the world

is long gone

and i know you know

that i'll remember all

of this

and put it into a poem.

ride it out

should i take

the Christmas lights down

from around

the window

and stairs,

or just wait it out.

only seven more months to go.

the tree too, a bare

boned affair is still

in the corner,

with presents unwrapped,

below.

it's shredded of every

needle,

every ounce of dignity,

but with the ornaments

and lights

still there.

even the angel you

stuck on top, unlike

you,

is leaning towards staying

another year.

on the side of the road, waiting

it's a gradual

decay

of what we presumed

to be permanent.

whether wood

or brick,

or steel. the car

we drive.

it has a shelf life.

like we do.

there's only so much

tread on the tire,

before

we go flat and wait

for what's next.

hopefully a quick

tow

into heaven.

one more cup of joe

i think of  coffee

as jumper cables.

something to give you

a bump

to get the day started.

is it good for you, bad

for you,

who knows.

like the weather that opinion

varies. it changes

from day to day.

yes, it's an addiction,

a toxic plant with

inedible hard beans,

but crushed and boiled

in hot water

and

doctored up with some

cream and sugar,

well, it's okay.

is it a sin?

hell no. i save the guilt

for other vices.

let's have

one more cup before we go.

down goes Bubbles

after a date,

one time,

my ex girlfriend took me to

her dog's grave site.

it was the anniversary

of its demise.

it was raining,

cold,

and windy.

but we bundled up and

found the spot

where her rescue dog, Bubbles,

was buried.

there it was.

the headstone

with the name and the date

of death,

the birth left out

because who knew when

it was born. it was a rescue

dog after all.

it was nine years ago, but

she started crying.

i loved that dog, she said,

we had it for

three weeks, but then

had to put it down because

it bit me

and tore the ear off of some

kid who tried to pet it.

she shows me the scar

on her arm.

teeth scars.

i hand her a handkerchief

to blow her nose

and help her back to the car.

she's suddenly become lifeless

and heavy.

i didn't say anything

as she slumped in her seat,

depressed and sad,

but in my mind i kept

thinking, this is a giant cup

of crazy.

i felt bad for poor Bubbles,

but i have to find a way out

of this relationship.

the wal-mart experience

do i need a twenty pound

bag

of orange marshmallow

peanut

shaped candies.

not really.

but someone must.

a study must have been

done 

at the lab.

what do people want?

of course the answer

was inevitably 

giant bags of marshmallow

peanuts.

they've put the science

into it,

done the research.

years of study.

back up the truck, we're

running low.

just going for cream

it's just a mile up the road,

a mere mile,

with three

traffic lights to slow down

to, or stop

when it's red.

i'm just going to get

cream for my

coffee.

that's the list.

but a few roadragers

make it an

adventure with their

flashing lights behind

me,

their one finger salute,

their red faces

and screams

as they weave back and

forth in a dance

of anger.

i'm apparently not going

fast enough

in the right lane

as school lets out

and it begins to rain.

it's too revealing

when i see the neighbors

with their

blue plastic bins

religiously putting out all

of their recyclables

i feel guilty.

should i do that too?

but where do i get a bin?

plastic, paper, glass and metal.

other assorted trash

all out there in the open.

it's too personal.

too revealing.

what would people think

with all these empty tuna cans?

i like to bag my trash

and keep it hidden.

Stella, Stella

it's humid.

it's New Orleans humid.

i'm sweating, drenched

in my own personal high tide.

i get now why

they talk

the way they do down there,

words

just don't come

out in an intelligible way

when it's this hot and sticky.

the words want

to stay in a cooler

place.

i change out of my white

t-shirt,

and find my other t-shirt,

the one with

no sleeves, just like the one

Marlon Brando wore

in Streetcar.

i change my wife's name

to Stella,

and start screaming her name.

she comes into

the room,

hands on her hips and asks

me who Stella is.

i'm fanning myself with a 

slice of pizza.

what's wrong with you,

she says.

who should we eat?

which lobster

do you want to eat, i ask

her as

we stand at

the green turbulent

glass enclosure

of water.

the monstrous brown

crustaceans

are biding time,

looking up at us with

sad beady eyes, their tentacles

waving in muck.

they want us to choose.

can i get something dead

already, she

says.

or maybe just an ice berg

wedge

with dressing on

the side.

two nights in Paris

the flight attendant,

Debbie,

asked me to go to Paris with

her once.

there was an opening

in one of the jump

seats.

pack light, she said, it's

only for two nights, but

it will be fun.

she showed me what looked

like a fishing net,

her body stocking in black.

i almost went.

almost,

but her husband called

at the last minute 

and asked how

i would feel if he was

going to Paris

with my wife.

he made a good point,

although i wasn't married

at the time.

that was the end of that.

au revoir Debbie.

is there a doctor in the house?

i e mail my invisible

doctor

and tell him

that i want some blood

drawn.

i want him to lift the hood

and check out

all the moving parts.

give me a work up.

a once over.

the scale,

the blood pressure,

take a gander in my nose,

my throat, my ears,

hit my knee with that rubber

mallet,

etc.

i haven't met him yet,

but after two years

of zero communication,

it would be nice to meet

him in the flesh,

i mean if he really does exist.

steak and lobster, open bar

it's wedding

season again. the invitations

are pouring in

from nieces and nephews.

old friends.

some for the first time,

others a repeat performance.

if you can't come here's

our website,

our go fund me page,

our list of things

we need and want.

we prefer amazon delivery,

over night.

or fed ex and ups.

i search the menu of each

of the weddings,

then i decide.

there it is, in Michigan.

steak and lobster

and open bar.

cousin Eddie, whoever he is.

i pack my bags

to fly.

counting sheep

the long

afternoon nap has back fired.

despite

the needed 

deep sleep

of an hour, now i stare at

the ceiling

counting

proverbial sheep.

which aren't sheep at all,

but you can figure

it out.

you're going to miss the first act

better hurry,

he'd say, smiling, his sunglasses

on as he ate

cheese

on crackers.

better hurry, you're

going to miss the first act.

of course

he was referring to church.

the five o'clock mass.

but i think he did

believe, deep down inside.

though he'd never

show it, that to him would

be a sacrilegious

act.

the family grudges

ah, the mysterious

and forever

family grudges

continue

on into the next decade

and beyond.

no one remembers exactly

why,or what happened

that led

to brothers and sisters

not talking to each other

anymore,

ghosting each other.

it was so long ago.

the details are vague, but

so what.

something was said,

something was done.

nobody apologized for

whatever it was.

who knows?

but it's fun.

a one star stay

i order up room service,

but there's

no answer.

i have to get dressed

and go down

to the kitchen

to fix myself some scrambled

eggs and coffee.

this used to be a four star

house, but

things have changed now

that i'm the only

one living here.

i even had to do my own

laundry

the other day.

what next? picking out

my own clothes

to wear?

warming up my own

car?

make my own bed, God

forbid?  

i look up my address on yelp.

they give it one star.

carpe diem

you hear people

say things like,

you can't take it with you,

or live each day

to the fullest,

carpe diem,

and you only live once.

usually they're stuck

in a bad job,

a lifeless marriage,

and living in the suburbs,

mowing their lawns

on the weekend, or

raking leaves.

but still, all good advice.

who gets what

the house is full

of furniture 

tagged with sticky notes.

books and pots

and pans.

his, hers.

this stays, this goes.

even the kids 

have little notes

stuck to their

shiny foreheads.

undecided,

the dog too.

each unclear

about tomorrow.

everything fits now

i've done my share of

emotional eating and not eating

over the years.

i can't figure out

though

what kind of broken heart

triggered which.

who made me fat,

who made me skinny

is unclear.

but right now, everything

i wear is a perfect

fit.

we don't want to offend anyone

i go to the library

to check out a few of my

favorite books,

but they're gone.

oh, the librarian, says,

we don't carry

those books anymore.

they have ideas and words

in them that

a few people don't like.

we're trying not to

offend anyone.

we may have a book burning

on Saturday. 

a lovely bonfire.

you should come.

wear your brown shirt

if you have one.

zero rabbits

i haven't seen a rabbit

in ages.

where are they?

what are woods without

rabbits?

they would

definitely be a nice

addition

to the yard.

i can even grow some

carrots for them,

or buy a bundle

at the market.

do they have to be organic?

maybe we can ship 

some bunnies in

from somewhere. 

i'm putting out an all

points bulletin

for rabbits.

although there are

a lot of foxes.

this sunshine

i like this version

of you.

this happy

version. this carefree

vibe

of fun.

i like this mood.

this sunshine.

let's bottle it,

save it for when the rainy

day

with clouds

decides to come.

we can even hold hands

more

moons will rise

and show themselves to us.

but let's

take a moment

for this one.

the night is warm.

let's sit and enjoy

the light of it

beside each other.

we can even hold hands

if you want to.

the self imposed exile

when your kingdom

has vanished,

when the glory is over.

the money

gone,

the crown tarnished

and there's grey

in the hair,

a slower gait

of foot,

to which island will

you go.

disconnecting from

the world,

once yours,

never for a moment

did you consider

that even you

could grow old.

fleet of foot

fleet of foot,

the thief, sprinting

towards

the woods

with the pocket book

under his arm,

reminds

you of the time i

dashed

seventy-five yards

to the goal line

for a touchdown.

weaving back and forth

through the arms

of would be tacklers.

i remember it like

it was yesterday.

pinwheels in the sun

on Friday.

before a long weekend,

you see

the children getting off

the bus,

they are 

doing cartwheels

on the way home.

arms and legs

turning

like pinwheels

down the grassy slopes.

how you miss

that feeling.

organic and green

it's

admirable that

they want to save

the planet,

make it organic

and green.

reduce the carbon

footprints.

its a wonderful

and virtuous dream.

good luck with

that.

just one thing

in the way.

a little thing called

greed.

not a second sooner

maybe a day

or two

goes by, maybe a week,

a month,

a year.

and still, no answer,

no reply.

you give up.

people want you when

they need you.

not a second sooner.

behind the scenes

it seems like

over night the world

goes green,

but it isn't true.

it's been working on it

for a while.

as most things are,

a lot is going on

behind the scenes.

there was such a time

you see the photograph

of them

in Florida.

tanned and rested.

smiling.

the ocean stretched out

beyond their balcony.

they're wearing white,

of course.

drinks are in their hands.

it feels like

money, like joy.

like the brass ring

is in their hands.

they'll always remember

this day,

this time when all the world

felt right

they'll show this picture

for years

to prove

that there was such a time.

the rainy day will come

save your

pennies. your coins,

your folded

dollars.

stuff them

in a drawer,

in a mattress,

somewhere safe,

the rainy day will come.

i assure you.

his turn now

no ill will intended,

but it

feels like karma has arrived.

what goes

around has returned.

and as he

lies in his shared room,

alone,

on a single bed

without a window

or plant

to give him hope. he

wonders

what went wrong. 

it truly is, 

turn now.

the candled cake

her

wish over the candled cake

was

whispered

quietly

so that only she could hear.

then she blew

her

breath into the licks

of flames.

dousing the light

upon them.

maybe this time.

maybe now, at this age,

at last

a true love would

appear.

mother day flowers

i get in a fight with

some woman

in Safeway.

we both grab for the last

bouquet of flowers

in a bucket of water

by the cash register.

she's very strong.

but i'm able to pin her down

and ask her to say uncle.

but she won't give up.

she knees me in the groin,

then hits me with a left

uppercut to the chin.

i roll over in pain as

she jumps up and runs

out of the store, throwing

money behind her to

pay for them.

slowly, i limp out and see

her in her car

with her kids, and an old

woman who might

be her mother.

happy mother's day she

yells out, the window,

as i head off to the next store.

maybe chocolates.

back in the saddle

i get back on the horse

after the fall.

i'm back in the saddle.

i yell out giddy up,

and wave my hat in the air.

i'm wearing my

new boots, my new chaps

held up by my new belt

with a giant buckle

in the shape of texas.

i'm ready again

to ride the trail, herd

the cattle, sheer the sheep.

milk the cows.

whatever. truthfully,

i've had too much to drink

and i shouldn't be on this

horse again.

can you help me down.

walk me back to the barn?

monogramed towels

i think about getting

monogramed

towels

for the bathroom.

disposing of

those from another life,

but i'm unsure

if i should go with all

three initials,

or just two.

should they be in royal

like script,

or plain bold print,

what color,

indigo, red, or blue?

what about the wash cloths?

it's here somewhere

where is the note

i wrote?

i rummage under the layers

of sediment

and silt.

papers on top of papers.

a snow drift,

a deluge.

a mess

of scribbling.

it's here somewhere.

it's all here.

i just need to sort

and sift.

take a shovel to it all

and dig.

i need a better filing

system

than this.

be smart, sit near an exit

never

sit too close to the comedian

doing his

act.

you'll be in it before the night

is over.

or the magician,

sit in the back row, or

he'll be pulling you onstage

and sawing

you in half.

and weddings. sit in the middle

or out of sight

in the back.

near an exit.

don't be the one at altar.

that's pretty much all i have

to say about 

that.

the stair case

do you ever worry

about falling down 

these stairs,

she asks me,

carrying her high

heels in one hand

and jewelry in the other.

not really, i tell her.

i'm rarely going down

after drinking,

mostly going up.

it's wearing thin

is it age,

is it wearing out,

life

wearing thin.

what interested you for

so many years

no longer melts your butter.

sports

and bars,

fast women.

fishing.

even music at times,

has had

its last spin.

i have to go now

she always calls

right before she goes into her

yoga class.

she's smart

like that. keeping the conversation

short.

getting her talk

out of the way before she

says, i have to go in

now. i don't want them

to start without me.

i'll call you later, which

she never does.

can you sit still long enough

can i paint

your portrait, she asks me as we

lie in

bed,

wishing we had

a someone kind around

to fetch

us coffee and a croissant.

you want to paint me?

i ask her,

leaving my hand on her

leg.

yes.

she says.

can you sit still long enough

for me to paint you?

i doubt it i tell her.

maybe a photograph

instead.

the purple garden table

there's something

relieving

about dragging things to the trash

pile

near the hydrant

on a Sunday.

getting rid of old things.

boxes of junk

left

by a former tenant.

piling it all up

for pick up,

come Monday.

maybe someone will

scavenge

this purple garden table,

before it goes

to the dump.

sifting for gold

it's like sifting sand

in cold water,

the new writer says,

young

and tireless.

it's like

kneeling

at the mountain creek

with a bucket,

and searching

for a nugget of gold, 

all day

and night i write

and write, he says,

hoping to strike it rich

with the next

story told.

the hardware closet

the hardware

closet is nearly full.

old televisions

with knobs and antennae,

flat screens

in dust. forgotten

am and fm radios,

computers and monitors.

messaging

machines.

wires. wires. wires.

a box of old phones.

cells and land lines

of a long forgotten

time.

surge plugs and speakers

that never

got connected.

two printers

at last at rest, no longer

rattling with one more

page 

from a button

i never pressed.

there are cameras too

with Nikon lenses,

digital

and ones of another era,

old school with

the film still in them.

how you remember it to be

not unlike

a photograph, a group

of words

spilled

onto paper can take you

there as well.

shade

the light, or brighten

the moment.

it can be truth,

or a lie, it doesn't matter.

it's how

you remember it to be.

so write.

the losing tickets

i see mostly

ragged people at the machine,

or standing out

on the sidewalk

scratching with their pennies

the lotto

tickets that just came

out of the machine.

the poorer you are

the more hope you have.

hope

being a dangerous thing

when there's no

food on the table.

1968 RFK

i was too young

to vote,

but he was the last politician

i really cared

about.

but then, of course,

they killed

him.

keeping everything

as is,

never changing, extending

death for another

four years.

that seemed like our

one chance

at the time

to make things right.

maybe it was, maybe it

wasn't.

who knows.

royalty

i watch

about nine seconds of the coronation.

the golden

egg of a carriage

carrying the royals.

what gives here?

what are we doing?

kings and queens,

palaces

and guards, what are

we doing

while

the dole lines get longer

and the taxes

increase.

humanity never fails

to surprise me.

in the wind

having lost

track

of them, Perry, Breck

and Jim, i find no trail online.

no sign of them,

zero

clues as to where they might

be.

three boys, now men

that i spent

half my

life with, growing up

on

the same music, the same

streets,

playing the same sports,

summers

into winters. sometimes

with sisters

that became girlfriends.

working together on our

first jobs.

we thought

it would never end.

but it appears it has

for good.

it's just nature

casual

in his flip flops, the long

leash

letting the dog

wander into the brush.

i tell him

about the snake that

just crawled

across the trail.

copper head

i tell him.

he dips his sunglasses

and smiles.

no problem, man.

he says, puffing

on a joint.

it's just nature.

just nature, relax,

you should chill for

awhile.

where's the milk

we've attached

the word

post

to so many circumstances

in our lives.

post

partum,

post relationship,

post work.

the whipping post.

post traumatic

syndrome.

post cereal.

where's the milk?

heavy breathing

there's heavy

breathing on the line,

but

no words.

nothing is said.

i wait,

i say, hello, 

is anyone there?

still nothing, just

breathing.

silence. inhales

and exhales.

it's obvious who it

is though.

it may be the most

interesting conversation

we've ever had.

early sunlight

the way

the light comes through

the glass

making

art on the far wall

of lines,

sunlight through

the slats,

how can you compete

with that.

why vote?

what choice

do we have, the large loud

man

in the oversized suit,

a bully

in every way,

or the fossil

who stumbles

and forgets what he's

about to say

before he speaks.

we seem rudderless.

where are the leaders?

the smart,

the brilliant, the kind

and compassionate.

how did we get here?

how do we get out?

when you reach the age of reason

for most,

until we hit a certain

age, we

are careful with our words,

our opinions,

keeping

them to ourselves

for the most part

although some may leak out

to a wife

or husband, or

close friend.

but we stick to the politeness

of not talking

about politics

or religion.

we censor ourselves

in conversation,

careful not to offend.

but then

you hit a certain age

and you say whatever

the hell is on your mind.

it all comes

pouring out,

finally, you get to say

exactly what you mean.

no longer do you hold it in.

grey angels

i believe

in fire, the power of the flame.

see how easily i toss 

things into the ring.

no flinch, no regret,

no sorrow.

the fuel of letting go.

i like the smell of it.

the tang in the air

of things burning.

the ashes,

like grey angels

rising.

farewells are better

i'm better at departures,

throwing my hand up

in the air

to wave farewell.

i'm good at leaving,

of departing

by bus,

by walking, by rail.

arrivals 

bring so many 

expectations,

making it easier to fail.

an ordinary day

give me the ordinary day.

the one

you don't remember.

the one

without drama,

without excitement, or fear.

give me

the forty degree day, 

with no clouds on the horizon.

give me

just an empty sky,

blue and clear.

what love isn't

what love is

seems to be a foreign country

at times.

one

unvisited, i've spent

too many years

in the land

of what love

isn't.

planted my feet on

that hard

soil,

that shifting sand, expecting

better things

to come.

expecting the lush greenery

of life.

the sweetness of fruit.

not the bitter

taste

of lemons.

the long hot bath

unfeathered

with

our

clothes off we slip into

the warm

bath

for some liquid

therapy.

the steam rising,

no longer

an image

in the mirrored

glass.

we sink into the heat,

the bliss

of bones

and soul being warmly

bathed.

there are no problems

anymore,

just solutions.

the refrigerator list

it's a note

stuck to the refrigerator.

milk,

bread, eggs,

that sort of thing.

Fat Free Yogurt

for her

and salmon.

it's a short list.

and then at the end

it takes a turn.

it says i won't be coming

back.

i left the keys

under the front door

mat.

it was fun though.

i thank

you for that.

i stare at the list then

cross of the words

Fat Free Yogurt.

cold feet

your hands

and feet are cold

against me.

what gives on this warm

day?

what could be your problem?

your icy heart

i understand,

but the far

extremities

is a whole other topic

to comprehend.

walk in my shoes

i have to stop

at some point 

in buying new shoes.

i only two feet

and less and less places

to go.

DSW is the devil

with their coupons

and nagging e mails

with new styles from Italy.

it's embarrassing,

having so many to wear,

not to mention

the blisters i get when

breaking them

in.

the golden age of thievery

there was a golden

age

of thievery.

pick pockets and hold

up men.

slight of hand

stealing

of watches or wallets.

you almost

could admire them

and their craft.

but it's different now

as again and again

my cell phone rings

with another scam

from a foreign land.

they want

everything i have.

the inspection

it's a garage.

a darkened place where

they take

my car

and lift it off the ground

for the yearly

inspection.

it's the same

man

from last year.

but his tooth is repaired,

i notice.

he has a greasy

rag in his back

pocket,

and a travel

magazine to Bali.

he's wearing glasses.

he could be young

or old,

it's hard to tell.

he's neither happy or

unhappy, 

he just is,

as one car after another

comes to him

and his lift.

they're watching us

yesterday it was

a stroller

with a doll,

but today we

take a shoe box, with leaves

and grass

and tucked within

the body

of a fallen bird.

she insists on a proper

burial.

she's playing 

funeral now.

she's watching

us.

mimicking

our lives. whether

right or wrong

observing

how we behave.

two boxes of thin mints

i've been living in this house

so long

that the little girl who

used to sell me

Girl Scout cookies is now

grown up and

dragging her daughter

around

in a green uniform

with a red sash.

two boxes of thin mints,

the woman says, right?

when i answer the door.

apparently i have a lifetime

standing order.

who told them that?

i pick up the phone

to see

if it's still working.

i got nothing,

just a dial tone.

not a single message

left for me.

where the hell is everyone?

what happened

to Joan

and Stephanie,

Lisa

and Sally, Connie,

and Karen.

Julie and Flo?

where'd they all go,

who told them that i

suddenly got old?

leave it all behind

don't look back.

keep walking.

keep going.

leave it all behind.

drop the weight.

lay down the burden,

it's not yours anymore.

see how light you

are now.

see how easy it is

to find your stride again.

to be who you are

once more.

the answer was there

all along.

don't look back, just go.

our secret lives

there is so

much more than meets the eye.

so much

going on

that we don't know

about, or

notice.

take that ant for

example

carrying a lump

of sugar

home.

who knows what he's

up to

once work is over

and he's late

for dinner once

again.

hey Nineteen

who are they,

my date asks me, as a Beatle

song

comes on the radio.

i tell her

who they are.

you know, John, Paul,

George

and Ringo.

they sound nice,

she says,

are they a new group?

i look at her

and smile,

then try not to think about

it too much.

she asks me if i have

any gum.

i tell her no, but

there's a 7-11 up ahead.

i can pull over.

she asks me

if want anything as she

hops out.

skittles? 

no, i'm good.

it's going to be a long night.

dazed and confused

i hold the door

for a person i think is a woman,

but she's not, or at

least, not yet.

the wig fools

me and the dress.

flowered and yellow.

he or she hits me over

the head

with his purse

and tells me how dare i open

the door for him,

do you think i'm

not strong enough

to open a door?

do you really think i'm

weaker than you?

the fragile other sex?

i apologize, and hesitate,

wondering who

should go in first.

i'm scared.

off the top

there's another article

in the paper

about the mayor's assistant 

skimming money

off the top of construction

contracts.

despite his low salary,

he owns three houses,

two Mercedes and takes

regular trips to 

the south of France.

and yet no one seems

to notice.

i feel like i've read this

same story a thousand

times over the last fifty

years.

it's the same tale with

different characters.

temptation is a beast

when no one is watching

the till.

her bedside manner

i know she's not  a nurse,

or a doctor,

or even a physician's

assistant.

i know she doesn't know

head from tails

when it comes to medicine.

but damn she looks

good in white.

a starched white nurse's

uniform with a little hat

and heels.

i'm feeling better already

when she comes through

the door wearing that.

Coney Island Photos

we take a trip

to Coney Island, not for rides,

or the food,

the hot dogs

with mustard and relish.

not for the ocean either.

it just seems

like a fun thing to do.

we'll take pictures.

we'll frame them.

we'll post them online.

it will part of our memories

together, and when

we're really old

and losing it, we'll take

out the photos and say

to each other,

remember that time?

the gypsy people

anyone that keeps

moving,

packing,

relocating, constantly

with the tape

and boxes.

storage units,

changing of addresses,

settling

down again and again.

seven times

in seven years.

keep away from these

people.

what they're telling you

is just the tip

of the ice berg

when it comes to 

their troubles,

there's always a lot

more.

do the math

my brain

is itching for math,

longing to solve

an equation of some sort.

to add

and subtract.

i have an urge to

multiply

and go forth,

to find the square

root of numbers

that have

no end.

i'm tired of just words

and language.

i need something

more complex.

i need a new

friend.

the weight of what we're doing

let's keep this

between us, this whispered

secret.

no one

needs to know what

we're up to.

let's sin

in darkness.

avoid

the light, and 

judgement of others

for as long

as we can.

the guilt

is hard enough as it is.

mercury

an idea

slips into mind,

a clever

thought,

a mercurous

notion,

gold in the moment,

but not

written

down.

lost in time.

the x-ray

it's a dash,

a mere ghost of a mark

on the thin

silver photograph

revealing

bone

and marrow.

lungs

and heart, all of

it in black and white,

but it's enough

to suddenly stir

the life in him

to want more,

more days

more months more years.

how quickly

the calendar

and travel plans get filled

as the hour

glass is no longer

trickling in slow time,

but spilled.

the bright side of the road

his head was

bandaged like a wounded

soldier

at Antietam.

there was a tube

in his neck,

wires and what not

connected to his arm,

his heart.

the cancer was everywhere.

but he was chipper.

winking at the nurse

changing is

bed pan.

i'll be out of here in

no time, he told

me.

do you have any winter

work coming up?

a dozen to go

will this hot greasy

donut

rolling off

the conveyor belt at

Krispy Kreme, make

me happy?

the chocolate one,

the creme filled one,

the one

dripping in maple

icing?

will two or three do 

the trick?

yes.

for a minute or two, but

then I'm

really really

depressed and sick.

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.