mending the heart

for some

it's the spill of another drink,

the cool slide

of alcohol

down the hatch,

for others it's food,

the buffet

line,

the bib tight around

the neck,

and then there's drugs,

so many pills

to try and right the ship.

sex too.

does that appetite ever

end, another

band aid

trying hard to get the heart

to mend.

a few whisper of words

when dry,

when the well no longer calls

back

when i drop

the bucket down.

i go to the shelves.

to Larkin

and Plath, Strand

and Levine.

and the others, so many others.

just a few

whispers of words

from them,

and the pen retracts.

never reaching shore

careless

with money, with love,

with

purchases

or moves,

jobs, taking on life

without a plan

or cause,

will

keep you off kilter.

unbalanced,

near drowning,

as you tread

the water, never

reaching shore,

forever more.

an extra rip cord

we need spares.

whether

tires, or towels, shoes

and shorts.

we need back ups of

a sort.

a friend

or lover, someone

to help

you out, when the other

is not around.

an extra

rip cord on the chute

as we're

tumbling down.

just go around

you know

it's probably not mentally healthy

to never

leave the house,

expect for work

and food,

but you manage to do

just that

without

too much angst.

you've fallen out of love

with most

humans

that you meet.

why do they beep the horn

and flash

their lights so much,

just go around.

the spider bite

it's small

welt, a spider bite of some

sort

beneath

the shirt, far

up on the sleeve.

was it day,

or night,

that he or she feasted

on my flesh,

then left.

no card or letter,

no get well soon.

nothing

like that.

spiders, what are you

going to do?

the ripping off of the bandaid

i suggest the polite,

but well

written letter sent via

the postman

or 

email.

a well thought out

letter listing the doubts

and reasons

that this relationship

can ever progress

going

as it has for so long.

but keep the door

ajar that maybe, just

maybe a friendship

can survive.

i tell her to list gently

the causes

of breaking up.

the drinking,

the angry children,

the grieving of an ex-wife,

deceased.

the distance,

the run down house.

the weight of it all.

but instead she texts

and says,

we're done,

to which he replies. 

have a good life.

the Exorcist stairs

after seeing the movie

and having

the pee

scared out of us,

of course we walked 

over to

the Exorcist

stairs

in Georgetown,

the long concrete steps

rising and falling

into M street.

how did her

head turn around like

that, my friend Betty

asks me.

and that potty mouth,

in seven languages.

floating

above the room

with the strength of

a gorilla.

and then that plume of

green vomit

shooting out all over

the place.

oh my God. it all seems

impossible to me.

is there really evil like

that in this world?

you never met my last

wife, i tell her.

after her, i'm a true

believer that indeed,

there is that kind of evil.

go ahead and take the world

as we age,

i often hear from others.

that we lose

our appetites.

for food,

for sex. for sleep.

our ambition

has dwindled to a few

embers

in a dying fire.

we tell each other that

we're up at four

in the morning.

we brag

about our doctor visits.

the numbers,

our vital signs.

blood pressure

and the rest.

we're easily bored

with so much,

having seen the changes

go by our windows.

we're no longer

impressed.

the young can have it.

go ahead,

take the world we made.

it's time for us

to rest.

the Turkish bath

as i sink

into the steam and boil

of a hot

bath,

my bones

and muscles sinking to the bottom

of the tub,

aching,

i imagine

i'm in a Turkish bath

somewhere,

in some

exotic locale

where

the women are dark

and mysterious,

not here

in this row house.

built with

little imagination

but to make

money,

then head south.

as she picks her dress up off the floor

she tells me, as she picks her dress

up off

the floor

that she's catholic.

did you hear me, she says,

as i lie back

on a pillow

catching my breath.

i'm catholic,

she says again,

i thought you should know

that.

no problem, i tell her.

me too,

at least according

to the paperwork

in some desk drawer.

i won't hold it against you.

i kind of thought so

anyway

when you asked me

to close the door.

Sunday Morning

you enter the room,

but already your desire to leave

is greater than the one

that brought you here.

it's not where

you want to be.

but here you are.

you find a pew and sit,

someone tells you to move,

it's where they sit.

you find another pew

in back of the room.

by the exit.

and so it begins.

smoke and mirrors,

preaching.

soon it will be over and

you will leave,

no lesser, no greater than

before you came.

you've heard it all before.

and it worries you

how no one changes.

finding the time

i admire those

that give back, those that volunteer.

ladling

soup

into bowls down

at the shelter.

changing diapers

on the maternity ward.

those

adopting streets

and picking up the trash

of others.

what good souls

they are.

so selfless,

so good and kind.

so unlike the rest of us,

who haven't

got the time.

the thinning of you

ah the ghost of you

is thin

today.

thinner and thinner

with passing

days.

i can see right through

you.

but that's nothing

new.

is it?

the encyclopedia salesman

an elderly

man comes to the door

with a satchel of books.

encyclopedias.

i invite him in,

because it's a thousand

degrees outside.

he takes off his hat

and shakes out his long coat,

then sits down.

i get him some ice tea.

do you mind if i take

my shoes off, he asks.

sure, i tell him.

sure, why not.

take a load off brother.

do you have kids, he says.

yes, a girl and a boy,

but they're grown up now.

one lives in Idaho,

she's a sheep herder,

and the other is in the wind.

someone spotted him

in Portland once delivering

pizzas.

let me get to the point

of my visit, he says, opening

his satchel.

we have a special deal on now,

a set of brand new updated

Encyclopedia Britannica's.

the latest version.

there's even a chapter on

Covid and a picture

of Dr. Fauci in there.

but why would i need them,

i ask him.

everything there is to know

is right here in my phone.

i hold the phone up to him.

ever hear of google.

there's no need for libraries

anymore, or books.

huh, he says. interesting.

i've never heard of that. but

tell me you this, sir, he says.

what if your battery dies. then

what? what if you can't find

your charger, or there's an electrical

storm knocking out the power.

then what, how are you going

to look things up

in the middle of a dinner conversation?

yeah, right.

i got you there.

so what do you say. fifty-nine

dollars a month for three years

and this set

of twenty-one books

can be on your shelf by next

week?

we take Venmo, PayPal, check

or cash.

so what do you say?

oh, and do you mind adding

some ice to my drink,

and maybe a small slice of lemon?

the Woke Dinner Party

we decide to have a little dinner

party in our house,

but we're worried that we're not

woke enough.

i ask my wife Betty if we have

one of those

BLM placards to put in the window.

she shakes her head no.

we never had one of those.

well, i tell her, maybe put that 

Michelle Obama book on the coffee

table so that people can

see it, and maybe ask the Jacksons

if they'd like to come to the party.

she writes that down.

oh and put the SUV in the garage,

and pull the Prius into the driveway,

maybe scrape off that 

Support Your Local Sheriff bumper

sticker if you have the time.

Betty writes that down.

What about your friend Bruce,

she asks me. maybe invite him too,

and his boyfriend, Timmy. oh no, he's

on Fire Island for the week, darn.

but maybe we can borrow his

rainbow flag that's hanging on his

porch and tack it up over our doorway.

excellent idea, she says.

doesn't your therapist know the 

psychiatrist who has Greta Thunberg

for a patient. that would be a major

coup. excellent idea, and put

out those blue recycling bins that

we never use. put them out by

the curb so that people can see

them when they arrive.

are we for the war in Ukraine, or

against it?  hmmm. we'll have to play

that one by ear,

but we are definitely open to open

borders, and no tuitions, free

needles for all those people lying

in the streets all over the country.

agreed, she says. agreed.

do we know any socialists we can

invite?  i can't think of any.

nah, me either. maybe that teacher

who just moved into the neighborhood,

the house on

the corner with all those chickens

in the yard.

i'll stop by and see if she's interested

in coming.

i think she's part Asian too, so that

would be a bonus.

you know what would be golden,

i tell her, what, she says.

if we could get your sister to pretend

she's a transgender.

no offense, but she does have a

boyish figure, and short hair.

and all she has to do is put on a plaid shirt

and some combat boots. we can pay

her a hundred dollars.

she looks kind of confused and angry

all the time anyway

in that pre-op kind of way.

let me call her, she says, writing

that down on her list.

what about food, she asks me.

should i try to make that tofu turkey

that i saw on the internet.

sure, why not, give it a try, but

organic tofu, okay.

and put out a bowl of skittles too,

everyone

likes skittles. i'll pick up a case

of Bud Light in those blue cans.

yes, she says, most def. high five.

oh, one more thing.

maybe we should go see that movie,

Barbie, before the party,

so that we can tell everyone

how wonderful and true it is.

we can both wear pink.

that's a deal, she says.

i think we've got this.

she's always there

there

is a certain joy in seeing

the woman,

the same woman

at the bakery

behind

the counter

for years and years.

smaller

with each passing day,

but pleasant.

she even

knows your name.

the smell of fresh bread

in the air,

is her.

the smile

on her face is cream

and sugar.

as are

the pastries sweetly

laced.

getting our fix

each click

a bump of dopamine.

a little

treat

for the brain,

we feel good with

what frivolity

is on the screen.

we click and click,

again and again,

there is no end to this.

we are zombies now,

walking

in a daze,

bumping into things

that are in

our way.

they own us.

we are mindless consumers,

obedient slaves.

but i love my horse

she climbs

back onto the horse,

with her

broken leg

and arm,

her bandaged head,

concussed.

she grips the reins,

locks

her boots into the stirrups,

and off they

go again, galloping

across the field

towards another fence

that won't be jumped.

the horse shakes

her head

and says, really,

again, i have to throw

you off?

where are the locusts?

are we

there yet, in Biblical times.

nearing the end

of the world

as told in Revelation?

one would

think so, from casual

observance,

what with the plagues,

the fires

and floods,

the violence

and famines.

wars and immorality.

we seem to be just waiting

on the locusts

to top things off.

will there really be 

gnashing of teeth?

pass me the salt, please

we're not all bad.

evil,

despicable,

and unkind, all

the time.

we have our human

moments.

they say even

Hitler would pass you

the salt,

if you were sitting

down to dinner

with him.

of course, that was

on a good day

and early in his

conquering the world

thing.

the fact checker

he wasn't dumb,

but he wasn't all that bright

either,

although

you wouldn't know it

by how often he'd

try to correct or contradict

you

in casual conversation.

say, the sky is blue,

and he'd counter

with, well, not exactly.

exhausting.

whether science or politics,

books

or movies.

drink or food.

he'd straighten you out with

his version

of truth.

a fact checker without

the facts.

so you played along 

and avoided topics,

all topics, well actually,

nearly everything

under the sun,

for no good reason

does God

look at us, like how we

look

at ants.

all those ant hills,

all those ants,

industrious

and busy

with their lives.

how easy

it is to just sweep

them all away with a foot

or hand

for no good reason,

making them

start all over again.

smart cookies

we

used to laugh and make

fun

of things

when we turned it over

and read

made in China.

we assumed

it was poorly made,

rushed

through a factory

by little

slave children

with smudged faces.

but what isn't

made in China

anymore?

my friend

Jennifer

even has two adopted children

from China

now.

Sally and Biff.

they're scientists at NIH

and they're

only three.

his night job

my neighbor

Bill,

married, with three kids.

a good job

down at the factory

making rivets,

a dog,

a nicely trimmed

yard,

with roses bordering

the house,

is a drag queen down

at the club

Zanzibar in the city.

sometimes i see him

with the blonde

wig on,

the long dress

and heels and whistle

at him.

he blows me a kiss,

and says,

toodles,

as his wife and children

wave to him

from the door.

we can't live here anymore

i see the ghosts

leaving the renovated

house, now sold.

they're talking, mumbling

to themselves,

disgruntled

with the changes.

they aren't happy with

the new floors,

the fresh paint, new windows.

the pipes are fixed.

nothing creaks anymore,

not like it used to.

there's no longer bats,

or mice

running free in the cellar.

that's for wine now.

and the new tenants.

how can we haunt them?

they're so young and innocent.

so much of life

before them.

and that dog, always barking

at us.

time to go.

we can't be scary here

anymore.

taking a break

the unfamiliar

steps

will fool you, the first

step

higher than

expected.

you stumble, grabbing

the rail,

but to no use,

down you go,

tumbling.

but you're okay, as

lie face up

on the grass.

you stare into the blue

sky.

cloudless, not a drop

of rain in sight.

you need to take

more breaks from life

like this.

to enjoy

the scenery and not be

in such

a hurry

with your busy

ways.

no matter what our age

i didn't purposely

go to the window to see the new

neighbor 

sunbathing in her yard,

topless.

but i didn't exactly

close my eyes either,

or walk away.

what is it about us men

that we like to see

women without clothes,

no matter what our age.

where's the dog?

i forgot to do something

today.

but i can't remember

what exactly it

was.

i need to write things down

more,

tie a string

around my wrist,

put a tag on the door

before i leave.

i'll remember at some point

what it was.

i always do. but

where's the dog now?

The Bowling Alley

it's an old window

unit

circa 1970, or so.

the buttons are worn down

beneath

the plastic

shield. i hit power

on.

the small cool wind

that eeks out

smells like

beer.

draft beer

from a Miller tap.

maybe a cigarette too.

perhaps a pair of size ten

bowling shoes

after the spray is induced,

but i don't mind.

it reminds

me of the bowling alley

where i spent my youth

sliding quarters

into the pin ball machines

on a Saturday

afternoon, just to pass

the time.

a swim at ocean city

what are we diving into here?

this murky

ice cold water.

is it brown or green, hard

to tell

without the sun.

why do the waves

have foam

on them?

what's up with this gravelly

sand,

pointed rocks,

and hard shells.

i'm bleeding again.

i think a fish, or a plastic

bag, or a dead body,

just rubbed

against my leg.

watch out for that beer can,

its sharp edge.

throw me

a bar of soap and a tube

of Neosporin, 

i'm getting out.

princess on a float

her life,

as she imagines it to be,

is one

of a slow rolling

float down

main street.

her hand

waving to the adoring

crowds.

who doesn't love

a princess?

who isn't in line to be

her spouse?

even in old

age,

the delusion is strong.

flesh and bones,

with more make up.

more Botox.

more blonde.

he's not one of them

he's not one

of them, he's never been

one

of them.

he's been alone,

independent

since the day he was born.

he has

no desire

to enter a rest home.

there's not a pickleball

bone

in his body.

he can still put a sandwich

together,

climb in and out

of the tub.

he's a cookie

crumbling in milk, but

he's not

joining the others.

he's not of them.

a final resting place

the sand

will be your floor now.

the sun

your ceiling,

with the overhead light,

to warm you.

you'll 

find room

in this wide-open space,

you and the ocean,

at night 

the moon.

you have arrived, at last

to your final

resting place.

unstick and pull

unglue

yourself from that or

who

won't let

you

live the way you

want to.

sever the ties with a sharp

knife

down the sides,

with a few

strong cuts, unstick,

and pull.

permanence

there is  a certain

permanence

to us,

the unhappy child

stays

so.

no matter learning or

love

that comes along

the way.

it's ingrained.

it's rarely ever not

the same,

even with age,

perhaps just a 

different shade.

trouble is coming

trouble

is coming, says the glamorous

blonde

weathergirl,

before

the doppler radar map.

the grids,

the blooms of warning

oranges,

and fearful reds.

she's in yellow

today.

with a black sash,

and white

heels.

a human butterfly.

it's hard to take tornados

and storms,

floods

and the destruction of

a thousand

trailer homes seriously,

when she's

so bright and

cheerful,

fancy

with her weather wand.

the wishing well

as a kid

i wished that i had all the coins

in the wishing well.

that was my one wish

standing there,

bent over the rounded

bricks,

staring into

the clear water at all

those shiny coins,

wasted

and lost on silly hopes,

desperate wishes.

duck and run

as i listen

to them argue,

small children

beside

them.

his shadow across

their faces.

i hear the shrill

of my own youth,

the subdued

violence,

quieted by being in public.

home

will be another thing

altogether

duck and run,

i want to tell

the young mother.

unremembered

this drink

is temporary, this drug,

this

thing

in my hand.

this car,

or house, these clothes.

even you,

even me.

mere

are whispers, mere specks

tossed

in time,

floating in the wind.

soon 

unremembered,

soon undone.

free wi-fi

are you here

for business or pleasure

the clerk

asks,

at the roadside

motel.

he looks at my toothbrush in

hand,

searching for

the luggage that may be

at my feet,

but there is none.

hopefully

a good nights sleep,

i tell him.

one night, please.

sign here, he says, pointing

at the register.

oh, and we have

free wi-fi.

i don't care, i tell him.

that's on my long list

of things i'm trying

to get away from.

a postcard from Paris

i get a postcard

from Paris.

but it's hard to read,

the ink

is smudged, the words

run together

like blackened slush.

at some point

the card was rained upon,

or the postman

dropped it in

a puddle.

it could say, i'm sorry.

i love you

and can't wait to see

you again

when i return, or it could

say,

forgive me, but it's

over, i've met someone new,

and i'm in love, but

not with you.

i ignore the later

interpretation and go with

the previous one.

stepping in it

i try to stay away

from drama,

away form toxic people.

angry people.

people with steam

coming out of their ears,

people who everytime

they open

their mouths,

a lie falls out.

i try my darndest

to steer clear

of Shakespearean

entanglements,

but sometimes you

blindly take a step and 

you're in it up to your

hips.

not everyone can be happy

will a fresh

coat

of paint, change them,

suddenly

make them

content and happy.

i don't think so, but i

try to

please their troubled

souls

with more layers

of paint,

another coat.

pinks and blues,

tans

and golds,

a rainbow of colors.

and for a moment

the sun

comes out, and there's

a smile

upon their frown,

but that soon goes.

what's wrong now

i can't walk

in your shoes, although

the sentiment

is nice.

acquiring empathy 

for your plight by

putting on

your loafers

or boots

or spending a day

in your

Birkenstocks.

i can only go by what

you tell

me.

so tell me.

what's wrong now?

can i pet the tiger?

confused

by the nature of wild animals,

the woman

puts her

hand

in the cage

of a gorilla. no hand

comes back. a brave

man sticks his head

into the alligator's mouth,

the snake

is wrapped around a child's

neck.

let's picnic

where the bears are.

someone is feeding

the shark

from the edge of the boat.

these beasts must

laugh and wonder,

what it is about them

they we don't get.

more roads ahead

there is more road

behind

you than in front of you,

but it doesn't matter,

you press on.

you fill up the tank 

and go.

foot to the pedal,

with the radio on,

the windows down.

you'll know when you

get there,

when it's time to stop.

when it's time to

rest, and find a place

to lie down.

people

you try hard

to like people, to overlook

their

flaws,

you have them too,

you give them

room

to be who they are, but

there's

still something

wrong,

something about them

that keeps you

from getting close.

keeps you

from

wanting to be around them

very long.

the list of concerts

i go through

the list

of concerts seen.

Dylan and The Stones,

The 

Grateful Dead,

Tony Bennett. 

The Zombies,

The Motels, Elvis

Costello.

Boz Scaggs

and Roseanne Cash.

Edgar Winter.

Johnny Rivers,

CSNY,

Elton

and the Clash.

U 2.

Gordon Lightfoot

and 

Credence.

Grand Funk Railroad.

how we rushed

the stage for that.

there was Leon Russell

at the end.

the Guess who

at the beginning.

Ray Charles and BB King.

Springsteen

Tom Waits

and Southside Johnny.

but the most memorable

was you

doing karaoke,

singing 

Al Green's,

I'm Still In Love With You.

becoming one

in time,

her laugh becomes

his laugh,

his way

of speaking so like

hers.

they even begin

to look alike

in the face,

the way the eyes

are set,

the tilt of nose

and brow.

marriage will do that

to you,

if you don't look

out.

burned wise

the silly

girl, the foolish boy.

will they grow out of this

blissful

numbness

and become like us.

road weary,

and struggling at night

to get our

boots off.

burned wise.

will they stay on the merry

go round,

the swings

for long,

will they believe in love

forever

and ever with

heads in the clouds,

how we wish we all could.

it's just a dream

thankful

that it's just a dream, you

sigh,

and think,

that was a close

one.

you stretch

and pull the cord

to the blinds,

you let

the sun in.

the light is on you

once more,

you're free again.

who won't be missed

so young

to take his own life.

so wise

and talented.

how you read his books

and underlined

the passages.

he helped you and others

heal,

he gave direction

to when

your life was upside down,

but now this.

how do you tie it altogether.

who among us,

even strangers,

won't be missed?

the Jefferson nickel.

you are

not in heaven, or

in space

afloat.

you are not asleep

in a dream

untethered

by lifes gravity,

no,

you are in the neighborhood

pool

under water

near the cement bottom

painted blue

looking

for the nickel

you tossed in.

i ring the bell

i ring the bell

on my desk to have the butler

or the maid

bring up

another cup

of coffee and a poached

egg

with toast.

i ring and ring and ring.

but no one comes.

just the cat

and the dog, not far

behind.

i work for them.

it's different now

a long

time ago, when people would

tip

their hat,

or say good morning,

hello

and maybe strike up a conversation

about the weather,

or how nice it is

today, or

how cold,

you'd meet people like that.

maybe you'd

see them again

on the same path, walking

the same

trail.

it almost seemed like

anyone

back then could be a friend.

it's different

now.

scar face

with the 48 hours

up, being

the good patient,

i carefully pull off the bandage.

a wide

swatch

of gauze and tape

stuck to the side

of my face.

people stare, but don't ask.

it could be

anything, they must

think.

i take a look at the long

ragged

scar in the mirror.

the tiny train tracks

of stitches.

my friend Betty tells me

that facial scars

on men

are sexy.

oh, do tell, i say

to her,

maybe i'll get some more.

the relic on the hill

the hotel

on the hill had it's day.

had its years in the 1920s,

but had

fallen

in disrepair.

the bones were good, but

the paint

was peeling,

the pipes groaned,

it smelled

of rot and mold,

the elevator was

broken.

but we stayed anyway

because it had

a glorious view

of the ocean.

we ignored the mushrooms

growing in our

room

and brought our own

sheets and pillows.

who needs money anymore

apparently

you can go into a store now

with a shopping

cart and fill it up,

then leave without paying.

they are watched

by the employees, they are

on camera, these brazen

thieves.

but no one does anything

about it.

there's no police,

no one to stop them.

no morality or guilt.

they just wave and say,

we're poor and we have

needs.

until the lease runs out

don't rent

a room, or a house.

no one

cares.

the driveway fills

with cars,

there's a party going on

all hours.

they're your neighbors, not mine.

it's not their floor,

their walls,

their sink or toilet

that's backed up.

the burned out

bulb

means nothing to them.

that smell in

the floor board.

it could be

a raccoon, who's to

know these things.

we're only here

until the lease runs out.

your left rear tire is losing air

there's

a smugness in the tone of voice

when

a person points

out to you

that your shoe is untied, or

that a trail

of toilet paper

is stuck to the bottom

of your shoe, or

that there's spinach

stuck between

your teeth.

they feel so wise and helpful,

while you

stroll on through

life,

fumbling without a clue.

candy apple red

what boy

didn't want a candy apple

red car

or truck or bike

at some point

in their early life,

or 

a girlfriend not unlike

that.

something

or someone

that glistens in the sun.

sparkles.

something

to be polished

and cared for.

an amulet of sorts

to be envied

and admired by others.

some grow out of it,

this longing,

while for many

the search goes on.

i've forgotten your name

i'm

forgetting, he told me,

shyly.

into his sixties.

i can't remember

where

i'm supposed to be half

the time,

or what to say.

words

are suddenly bars of wet

soap

that i can't

get a grip on.

so pardon me

if i've forgotten your

name.

you bury it so

even now

i shiver at the sound

of a pair

of heels clicking across the floor.

how i sweated

and dreaded

that noise coming up

the stairs,

after

hearing the door

close.

it never leaves you.

that fear,

though

you bury it so.

the house on the corner

there was always

the haunted

house

on the corner.

the grass

three feet high.

a wisp of smoke coming

from the chimney.

occasionally you'd see

a face

peering out

behind

a broken window,

behind a grey sheer curtain.

an old

man,

an old woman.

they rarely left the house.

we'd stare

at it from our porch 

and weave

tales of what was going

on inside there.

were they eating children?

animals?

one day, would they come

to get us?

we'd never

find out.

her secret stash

in person

or out to dinner, she ate like

a small

rabbit,

crunching on lettuce

and carrots.

a few grapes

for dessert, but i suspected

that when

alone

her hand was deep into

a big of frito lay chips,

and she was working

her way down

another row

of oreos.

the good mood

despite

nearly everything, 

you wake up in a good mood.

it's inexplainable.

how can this be

with all that's going on

in the world,

globally and personally,

but you roll with it, shrug

your shoulders

and smile,

and say, okay.

nearing the end

if i ever

finish this nine hundred

page

book. The Red Comet,

i'll be sad.

i'll miss old Sylvia.

her mother Aurelia,

her husband, Mr. Hughes.

her father Otto,

and brother Warren,

Mrs. Prouty too.

i'll miss her days in

school.

in England and Boston,

New York too.

i'll miss

her bee keeping skills,

her journals

and letters,

the endless submissions,

her days as a nanny,

a waitress,

as a mother,

as a lover.

Her Bell Jar draft.

i'll mis her poetry.

her ambition

and her

love affair with writing.

i'll miss all of them if and

when i ever

finish the book.

only 200 more pages to go.

i can do better

i stare

at the black and white

photo,

stuck

inside my laminated drivers

license.

do i really look like that.

a mug

shot.

guilty as charged, about

to go to the gallows.

i don't look happy,

i look

old, tired,

heavy in my winter coat.

my face as pale

as fallen

snow.

i ask the woman

behind the counter if i can

have a do over.

she shakes her

head no.

then pushes the number

for another

person, and yells out,

next.

the turned over ice-cream truck

after my

father left my mother

and his

seven kids for some hot tamale

from Brazil,

my mother

started

dating a man named

Chuck Porter.

a heavy set fireman who

worked

at engine company

42

in Maryland.

he was on the scene once,

when

a twelve-wheeler ice-cream truck

was hit by a train

in Hyattsville.

we ate ice-cream all summer

long after that,

into the winter.

Chuck was history by then.

a can of salted nuts

my mouth says

one more,

one more handful of salted nuts.

one more

nut to crunch on,

and taste

the salt

before the final

gulp of water.

just one more.

i have the willpower

of a baby.

thank God i never knew

anyone with

cocaine.

not that i'd ever go

there.

nuts are pretty much my

limit

when seeking salivatory

satisfaction.

my desires have alwys

been quite

tame.

the third woman

there's three

women

standing around me, working

on my face.

one, the queen bee, has a scalpel

digging a ravine beside

my ear.

excising

cells gone wild.

the ear is plugged with cotton

to keep

the river of blood out.

the other woman, a nurse

in green,

dabs

at the flood, while

the third

woman

is behind them, doing what,

i can't tell,

because my vision

is blocked by the bright

operating light,

and thin blue sheet of paper.

when you're a Jet

i ask

the thespian next door,

who

was once in a soap

commercial

twenty years ago,

and now

an extra slash waiter

in the West Side Story

at the local

dinner theater

if the strike is affecting him.

he says

it's a disaster

the phone

is not ringing

anymore.

and then my sister said this

i interrupt

her story to tell her that

there's

tomato sauce

on her white blouse.

she's an hour

into the tale

about the mall and what

her sister said

about weddings.

but i'm saved

at last as she runs to

the bathroom,

dabbing, dabbing, dabbing.

and so it begins

how many

grams

of fat, of sugar, of fiber

in this

apple

Eve says to Adam.

are there

carbs too?

and so it begins.

payment due

too much

sun

has led you here,

to where

the doctor takes a fine

shiny

scalpel

to the side

of your face and ear.

the joyful

frolicking of

youth

is now

up for

payment. it's past

due.

mid-summer splashing

from the window

i can

hear the clatter of children in the pool.

mid-summer

splashing 

ensues.

the call of Marco polo

over and over

and over again.

the guard's whistle,

the shouts.

a barking dog.

mother's

in full hen mode, keeping

watch

on their brood.

father's asleep

in their plastic chairs.

someone could drown,

but they wouldn't know.

just one drink

i sip

now at a drink.

i linger,

i feel the glass against my lips,

the chill

of ice

in gin.

i taste the tartness

of a cut lime.

i have no where to be.

there's no rush,

nothing

important to attend to.

i sip now

at a drink.

whereas in the past

i need three or four,

hurried down,

but now, 

just one. just one

will do the trick

to help forget you.

despite tight stitches

there will be a scar.

no doubt.

the cut was deep.

and even though the stitches

were pulled

as tight as they can

be,

still,

the wound will never

cease.

there's no blood anymore,

but 

a reminder

will never leave.

her rainy day

she made

her rainy day my rainy day.

and here

i was about

to skip out the door,

doing cartwheels

in the sun,

but no,

she grabbed my arm,

and said, please,

please,

don't go.

there's so much i need

to tell you,

so many things you are

yet to know.

the names of others

i have used

the names of others

to enter

this site and others.

small

and great writers.

from Updike

to Salinger to Hemingway,

to Plath and Sexton,

Larkin,

and Levine,

Cheever,, to name a few.

i attach a few numbers

to the end,

plus some non-numerical

symbol,

to tighten the screws.

it's hard

to get in though, sometimes

i can't remember

who's guarding which

door,

and i have to start all

over again.

carnivores vegans and keto

i watch the pundits

battle

it out on YouTube.

medically or anecdotally

prescribing a variety

of diets.

the carnivores,

the vegans,

the fruitarians,

the ketogenic followers.

the rigid

purveyors of intermittent

fasting,

and one meal

a day

type souls.

everyone is right,

everyone is wrong.

but the fight goes on.

it's all about content

and subscribers,

views.

chaos and controversy

is what

it all thrives on.

try no sugar for a day,

no seed oils,

no processed foods,

and low carbs.

exercise, take a walk and

drink water.

that should do it.

now throw the phone away.

longevity

the trouble

with falling in love

with dogs

or cats,

or people is that they

surprise

you by dying an early,

or an untimely

death.

a turtle seems to be

the way

to go,

with shell and all,

though there's very

little cuddling

when the creature

is in bed.

as the world turns

when my

grandmother sat down 

with her cigarettes

and coffee

in front

of the tv

to watch As the World Turns,

there had to

be utter silence.

she put the dog in the yard,

and put her

finger to her lips.

demanding our complete

cooperation

in being quiet.

then she turned up 

the sound,

put her feet into a bucket

of warm water

and Epsom salts,

and got into it.

untold discipline

i admire

her, how she can sit for

hours

knitting.

and never

look at her phone.

she keeps

at it.

the needles clicking

against

one another

as the yarn unfolds.

what discipline it takes

to not

check her messages,

her e-mails,

to veiw

a tik tok,

or you tube video.

she's not human.

too early for that

too early

i tell the leaf fallen

and turned

yellow,

another gone red.

go back,

get back up there

and reattach yourself

to the tree

you fell from.

i'm not ready, not yet,

for summer

to end.

and you too,

stay up there sun,

just a little while

longer.

the big left turn

they used

to be great cities.

San Fran,

NYC,

LA,

Seattle

and Portland.

Vancouver.

not anymore.

trash heaps and crime

ridden with.

throngs

of lost souls

living in the sewer.

tents,

lying on the sidewalks,

full fentanyl.

who's to blame,

who's fault is it?

the left, the right?

who knows,

but it feels like this

country will never

be the same.

and the beat goes on

it's a long

discussion on the phone.

we try

to figure out the world,

never an easy

task to take on, we discuss

the behaviors

of those far,

of those close.

all these labels of toxicity

to apply,

don't mean a thing,

any attempts to diagnose

the mentally ill

are fruitless.

you can't change people

who don't

see anything wrong

with themselves,

so the beat goes on

as they great philosopher

Sonny Bono

once said.

i should know these things

it's a blank

spot

in me. the knowledge

of plants,

of seed.

i should know more.

know

more about the seasons,

the weather,

when to dig

when to plant and what

goes where,

for sun or shade.

i should know these things.

regardless of the hour

tired

enough, so the clock makes

no difference.

the hand

just barely over

the nine.

so what.

there's no shame in

fatigue,

crawling into

in bed before ten,

before

twelve.

regardless of the hour,

it's sleepy time.

give them an inch

the inches

add up

to feet and feet into yards,

then miles,

before

you know it

they've taken

over your life.

and crowded the joy

right out of you.

there's no where

left to hide.

move on

it's a shiny

object

catching the light

as you

walk

down

a darkened street.

a short

cut

through the alley.

is it a diamond,

or a shard

of glass.

do you dare bend

down

to pick it up,

to grasp.

or do you let it lie.

and move on,

settling for ambiguity,

at last.

going on strike

i tell myself,

that i'm going on strike.

i'm demanding

lower hours,

higher pay and more coffee

breaks

during the day.

i want a paid vacation,

paid holidays

and full health

coverage.

a retirement plan would

be nice too.

myself tells me to shut up,

and be thankful

you have work.

now 

get out of my office

and quit whining.

the cat's away

with her husband

in intensive

care with four stage

cancer,

lingering

at the hospital

on a ventilator, she tells

me on the phone

that she's getting ready for

her date.

she sends me a picture

of her in a cocktail

dress

above her knees,

her low-cut blouse,

and heels.

her hair, teased.

i'm exhausted she tells me

from being

at the hospital all day,

but i really like this new

guy,

he's picking me up at my

house

at eight.

did we bring enough protein bars?

when we

get to the moon again,

or mars,

what then?

with no air, or food,

or

water

to speak of.

now what?

did we bring enough

protein bars?

and enough

fuel to get back.

could the billions

have been

spent better, or is

it too hopeless

back there to turn

it around?

four syllable words

i hear

words out of his mouth

that i never

heard before.

words plucked and studied

from books

perused.

he's discovered the dictionary

and the thesaurus

all in the same

day.

he wants you to know

that

he's smart now.

not the kid

who grew up on the wrong

side

of the road,

like you were

so long ago.

it's all vanity

is it harder

for men, or for women

to deal

with this deterioration of the body,

the aging

process,

relentless as we're

reminded each day

with a new

stretch of skin,

loose

and crepe an added

wrinkle to the brow,

below the chin.

the shortened length

of us,

the weight

dispersed where it's never

been.

is

there a difference

in vanity

between us.

at times i think there is.

neither sex

wanting to give in.

running the red light

it seems that

stop

signs and red lights,

speed limits,

and detours

are just mere suggestions

anymore.

it's a wonder

how any of us get home

alive,

on this racetrack

of life.

longing to get home,

to turn

the knob

on the front door.

self medication

live long

enough and you'll know what

to eat or

drink,

and when to stop.

you'll know what your

body

can tolerate,

put some years

under your belt and you'll

know 

that if you take in

too much,

you'll know

which shelf holds 

the antidote,

the bottle, or pill

to bring you back around

once more.

with a bag of ice

on your brow,

you'll be fine by tomorrow.

the church bells

there is something

strange

about

the church bells, what is it.

is it time

they're trying

to convey.

a wedding, or the passing

of another life lived,

now gone?

let them ring,

let them sing in their

deep harmonious

gongs.

ring the bells, for me,

for someone

once loved.

for all that has come

and gone.

a field of cut grass

it was always

the cut

grass that you smelled on

those fall

days,

before the first practice, 

before the chalk

lines were laid

for games.

the pads

and helmet on.

fast and strong,

elusive

with an arm to toss

the ball.

we were boys.

and we still are, wishing

to go back

in time to

play again, to smell

the cut

grass once more.

the writers on strike

what will we do now,

with the writers

on the strike,

the actors too. how will

be spend our free time,

our nights

without a new episode

of the Price is Right,

or Naked and Afraid.

will we play board games,

actually talk to one another,

maybe read a book?

make love, or

fight?

this is uncharted territory.

one drink and out

when you

stop drinking, down

to a one

drink

maximum,

and you sit there and listen

and observe

those

tossing more down,

one after the other,

you wonder,

was i like that, that dumb,

that absurd,

soused,

and unhinged.

full of careless behavior

and words.

Christmas in July

it was about this time

of year,

at the end of July 

when i'd get the call

from my mother,

telling me that she just finished

her Christmas shopping.

all of it done

for her seven children,

and fifteen grandchildren,

a few nieces

and nephews and for her

sisters and brothers

in Philadelphia.

i could hear

the rattle of paper,

the ribbons and bows,

the snip of scissors

in her hands, 

and

the tear of scotch tape,

out of breath

but happy, as she

filled the closet with box

after box.

a name tag on each.

have i lied to you, yet?

she put her finger

to her chin

and pondered my question,

have i lied

to you yet, she said.

looking

suspiciously right

then left,

avoiding my glare.

no need to answer, i told

her.

i have the answer

right there.

lost and found

it's odd

to forget things.

to find notes, or money,

or numbers

written down on slips

of paper, folded

and stuffed

in the pockets of coats

or pants.

little touchstones of the past.

ticket stubs.

a hotel key,

a picture of you being

happy for once,

somewhere

off the coast 

of France.

sometimes she'd call

she told

me once, before she died,

that the first thing

she did

when she got

home from a long day 

of work

was to pull her bra off from

under her

blouse and fling it across

the room.

then she'd pull a cork

from a bottle of wine,

pour herself

a healthy drink

then cry.

after crying for a while,

she'd

fix dinner.

light a candle on the table.

sometimes she'd call.

sometimes she wouldn't.

sometimes she had nothing

to share,

nothing to talk about,

keeping to herself,

what was on her mind.

someone to depend on

do you have

someone to depend on?

a true friend,

a brother or sister

who has your

back,

is there someone you

can call upon

no matter what hour

of the night

it is.

penniless or flush,

will they come to you

in the worst of

times,

will they sit at your

bedside

in sickness, and in

death.

do you have someone

who knows

you best?

if so, count yourself

lucky,

few

have anyone like that.

it's no surprise

it's no

surprise and yet

we are,

by what life has in store

for us.

it's all been written

down

and lived,

look at all the books

on the shelves,

and read.

see what's always

behind us,

see what's up

ahead.

bathtub reading

like cake boxes

coming off the conveyor belt

in an I Love Lucy

episode,

with Ethel and Lucy

frantically trying

to keep them filled,

the New Yorker

Magazine

keeps arriving through my

door,

i can hardly read

and enjoy the last one

before another one

hits the floor.

there's only so much

time in the day

for a two hour bath,

and reading time,

not to mention the water

going cold.

your mother called me

strange

to see you with no clothes on.

you used to be so shy.

when

did you decide

to become

an actor

in such movies?

such taboo clips

all over

the lower end

of the internet?

i recognize the star tattoo

on your shoulder.

even after all those

hours

of medical school, now

this.

i almost

didn't recognize you

with your hair

dyed blue, with

assorted fillers

strategically infused.

your mother called to tell

me,

that you had decided upon

a different kind

of thespian route.

building from scratch

the tool

box

is full of tools of every

need

or imaginary

project that you'll never get to.

but therein

lies

the flat head driver,

the Phillips,

the wrenches and saws,

the pliers,

handful

of nails and screws

of all sizes.

oh, the things you could

make,

and do,

with all these tools.

but building things from

scratch, no,

it's just not

you.

Andover Drive

i remember that house

on Andover Drive,

weather beaten and

shadowed

beneath a cobweb of hedges

and vines,

the old man,

the sick woman

living there, tethered to

her oxygen

tank.

him in his compression socks,

legs up on

the frayed

recliner

from another age.

musty with time.

each room layered

in artifacts from when the children

were young.

it was always tea and crackers.

and a vague offer

of gin, pointing to where

you might find

the bottle.

he'd waddle to the stove

to make a bowl

of popcorn

to round out

the cheese and cut salami.

it was a strange

little world, winding

down.

winding down.

all the secrets 

boxed in the cellar

collecting mold.

a world you had no place

being in,

but would soon 

fortunately disappear from.

all her bases covered

she suggested

burning

sage, and spreading the smoke

all around

the house, in every

room,

to get the demonic

spirits out.

she was

part gypsy, part catholic,

and part

zen

guru.

she had all her bases covered

when it came

to heaven and hell,

and all that lies

in between.

three out of four doctors

not all lawyers

know

everything about everything.

the same

goes for doctors

and garage

mechanics, some can do

brakes,

but are baffled by transmissions.

some doctors

can 

fix an infection, while

others are stymied,

by

cardiovascular

infractions.

that lawyer may help you

with the traffic ticket

but when it comes

to divorce,

they're clueless.

broad daylight

we need locks.

we need passwords, and safes.

we need

protection

from the outside world getting in.

but in the end

they find

a way.

in the dead of night,

or in the light of day.

they pry open

the window to your heart

and soul,

and steal

away.

venial and mortal sins

i like

how the Catholic

religion,

rates

sins.

which is worse than the other.

venial

and mortal,

those that fall somewhere

in between.

you've got your pride, greed,

lust and envy,

resentment,

anger,

murder, sex outside of

marriage, thievery,

and hatred.

laziness is on the list too,

as well as missing

mass

with no valid reason.

yikes on that one.

it's a long list, one

that your conscience

keeps track of, if not those

virtuous souls

around you.

some sins

need a handful

of Hail Marys and

Our Fathers

to clean

the slate,

while other take a dose

of holy water,

some callouses

on the knees,

an intervention of the Saints

and priests,

maybe an exorcist,

and prison time,

to get whole once again.

the afternoon nap

the heat

makes one sleepy.

the solitude

of low light and the fan,

twirling

in its whispering

spin.

the ice

falling and falling

in the tumbler,

now

less gin.

will i ever rise from

this cool

couch

in the basement, make

a go of it,

again?

they're trying to kill us

it's a clean meal.

not a single

chemical additive.

it's out of the ocean.

off the local

farm,

out of the ground

before

a chemist can get his

hands on it.

before big brother turns

it into

a health catastrophe

food, causing addictions

and obesity.

diabetes.

no emulsifiers,

no industrial oils,

or added

sugars,

no starch, no modified

carbohydrates,

acidity regulators, or

flavorings, or

antioxidants

before being

formed into an edible

helix.

just meat,

and vegetables,

fish.

raw milk to wash it down.

maybe an apple.

where's my passport?

i need to widen

my interests.

change it up a little.

maybe take a trip somewhere new.

like Iceland,

or Timbuktu.

Bali,

or Canada,

but

then there's the airport

to deal with,

the delays, the planes

crashing.

flight attendants telling

me to put

on my shoes.

global warming,

and hurricanes,

wildfires,

tornadoes, covid,

monkey pox,

vaccines and

passports.

riots and wars.

not to mention

dealing with how everyone

hates Americans.

and for good reasons

too.

nah, forget about it.

maybe i'll just take a stroll

around the mall

today.

a strange man in the neighborhood

the next door

neighborhood app is fun.

there's always

a Marge looking

out her kitchen window

keeping everyone

updated on

what's going on.

did you see

a strange man walking by the other

day,

someone writes in.

he was wearing a hat,

and gloves,

but not with a dog.

that was my husband,

a woman replies.

and i agree, he is strange,

and getting stranger by the day.

if you see him again,

please send him

home.

i sent him out for milk yesterday.

a bag of ice

when the power

finally

goes back on, i hear a thousand

beeps

from all over

the house.

i get up

to go turn the lights off,

the tv off.

turn the porch light on.

it's hot as hell

in here.

the ac finally clicks on.

i get a melting

bag of ice

from the fridge and bring

it to bed with me.

i wrap it in a towel

and curl up

next to it.

two dogs in the park

i overheard

two dogs talking at the park

the other day.

long in the tooth,

old dogs.

dogs

who refuse to learn any

new tricks.

remember when,

the one dog said to the other,

when we

ran free with no leash,

no one walking 

behind us with a plastic baggie.

i mean

how embarrassing is that.

there's no privacy anymore.

i never had a shot in 

my life until

i was dognapped and moved

to the city.

heartworms, who cares?

i ate a dead bird the other day

and my owner

went wild.

you'd think i'd shot someone

in cold blood.

we're dogs for 

god's sake. it's what we do.

we eat dead things in the woods.

i'm tired of my owner 

whining about

the cost of every trip to the vet.

it's always 500 hundred

bucks,

no matter what they bring you

in for.

i've had more blood taken

out of me

than a vampire sucks in a year.

hey look,

there's as squirrel, you want that?

nah, i'm good.

you can have him.

ah forget about it.

i wish i had a real bone to chew on,

like in the old

days, a big old T-bone from the butcher.

they gave me

a rubber bone the other day,

what the hell?

how would they like it if

i bought them

a plastic blow up doll to make love to?

it's crazy man.

my owner is a vegan too, i haven't

smelled charred

meat in years.

just shoot me.

one arm bandits

i cash

in my social security check

for quarters

and head

to Atlantic City

to see what all the fuss is about.

i find

a slot machine,

and a chair,

a pot of coffee

and some snacks, and

settle in for the day.

i keep pulling

the arm

of the slot machine

until the money's

all gone.

but another check

arrives next Tuesday.

so i'll be back.

over the rainbow

you

have to stay away from

the idea

of hope, i tell

my friend Betty.

at sixty-three

she's still hoping that the right

guy will

come along.

that her ship

will come in, that there

will be a pot

of gold at the end of some

rainbow.

prince charming 

is just over the hill on

his horse.

she watched too many

Disney movies

as a little girl,

and swallowed the big

lie whole.

i feel your pain

i feel your pain,

and your

need to cuddle in

time of crisis,

in fact,

because of your elbow

in my

back,

i too have pain.

can you give me some

room.

just a few inches

of space.

arms length would

be nice.

thank you.

drink water if you get thirsty and other summer tips

very hot

and humid, the weather girl

says.

she's wearing a red

dress to indicate

to the viewers

how hot it is.

she looks like a thermometer

about to burst.

don't go outside if

you don't have to.

don't breathe,

don't open your eyes

and look at the sun.

stay away from matches

and charcoal.

don't rub two sticks together,

don't fall down on the melting

tar road.

hydrate, or drink water,

if you prefer that phrase,

when you're thirsty.

stay tuned for more helpful

summer tips,

now back to you Jim,

for news about that erupting

volcano

near the forest fire.

bumper cars

the first time

you get behind the wheel

of  a car,

you say to yourself,

this is easy,

i got this,

what's the big deal.

gas, break, signals,

stop and go,

but soon you learn

that it's not you

that you

have to worry about,

it's everyone else

that's on the road.

the drinkers, the texters,

the distracted,

all those fiddling with

the knobs and gizmos,

the young and old.

can't stop what's coming

just as i can

look

out a window

and see that a storm is coming,

that a hard

rain is about to fall,

so it is with you,

one look into

your darkened face,

your fierce eyes,

and i know

what's coming too.

thirteen steps

which bone

is it now,

which muscle pulled,

or inflamed

joint

that makes me wince

as i negotiate

the stairs

going down.

thank God for rails.

at some point i'll repaint

these walls

where my arms

and shoulders

have leaned upon in

going down

to the kitchen.

going up is much easier.

crawling

like a child.

this won't hurt bit

ah,

the dentist.

the Brazilian model

schooled in the art

of dentistry.

she's tanned

a golden brown,

she smells like coconuts

and limes.

she's

in her white smock,

with tight blue latex gloves

and 

a sky blue visor.

is she going to the beach,

or to play golf,

or to drill on my

teeth.

she gives me the sermon

on

receding gums,

bone replacement,

on brushing after every

meal,

the necessity of flossing,

she smiles and says,

you liked candy and gum

as a kid,

didn't you?

i say, uh uh. yes ma'am.

indeed. open wide, she says,

this won't hurt

a bit.

as she holds the syringe

in the air,

the bright light shining

on the wet tip,

but all woman

say that

at some point.

still life with pears

her skill

at making an Anjou pear

enigmatic

was

eerie.

how light her touch

was with

brush

and paint, the blank

canvas,

the bowl of green

and red pears in front

of her.

showing how

the light from the window

landed

on each curve

of fruit.

when it was done,

you had

tears in your eyes,

but still

nowhere to hang it.

where are they?

i buy

a dozen or more bar

rags,

kitchen rags,

whatever they are

about once a month

to wipe down the counters,

the stove,

etc.,

but i never know what happens

to them.

they seem to disappear.

i know

they're being washed,

and dried,

but somehow they never

reappear

in the kitchen again.

socks seem

to have that same disappearing

act down too.

a rack of lamb

i'm glad

i don't have to kill a cow,

or a baby lamb,

or pluck

a chicken,

catch a fish, or 

wrestle anything else

to the ground

to eat it.

would i become a vegan then?

hell no.

i'd just put a log

on the fire,

sharpen a good knife

and get used to it.

the gravy train

one ex wife

used to tell me, if you

truly loved

your son,

you'd buy him that toy,

this video

game.

those shoes,

that camera, that bike,

the college

tuition,

another car.

you'd give him money

to go on

that trip to Bali,

fund his marriage,

his honeymoon,

his life.

after he turned 40, still

with no job,

floundering,

i figured it was no longer

about love and that

i had done him 

more harm

than good.

he's waiting on the will

though.

no stars service

the girl

hands me my cup of coffee,

then

a receipt

pointing to a web site,

asking me to go online

and fill out

the survey

telling her company

how well

she did at her job, of

pouring 

coffee into my paper

cup, putting the lid

on and handing it to me.

this happens all day long.

at the grocery store,

the clothing store.

the hardware store.

even my doctor

and my dentist want me

to fill out

a survey telling them how

wonderful they are.

how'd we

do, putting that carton

of milk

in a bag?

i give everyone no stars.

this has to stop.

the stuck key

with the key

stuck

in the door, i look around

as if there

might be

someone nearby

to figure this out.

free my key.

maybe a locksmith

or someone

like that.

i wonder if i have

any oil

to squirt in there,

or some tools to 

jimmy it around.

but no.

then i see a kid running

up the street

win a hoodie on

and a mask with an

enormous pink purse

under his arm.

hey, i yell, out,

hey kid.

you wanna make five bucks?

he comes up to the porch

and stares at the lock.

he tells me

you have to jiggle it.

i've tried, i tell him, then

i let him have a go at it.

he opens the large pink

purse looking around for

something,

but finds nothing he can use.

so he rubs his hands together,

then puts his ear to the lock,

then jiggles it

back and forth, slowly at first,

then with a hard turn,

freeing the key.

i give him five bucks.

i hear police sirens approaching.

thanks, mister, he says,

but i have to go,

they're chasing me.

Canadian bacon

when she got back

from Canada, she came over

with a gift

wrapped in a bow tied box.

but she wanted to talk

first.

she wanted to tell she was

breaking up with me.

seems she met

a Canadian Mountie

while horseback riding

in the mountains.

what's his name, i asked

Zeke, she said.

you'd love him.

he's a lot like you, but

you know how

i love a man in uniform.

he has a beard too.

oh well, i said, as i rubbed

my smooth shaven cheeks.

i'm gonna miss you.

what's in the box?

open it, she said.

so i did. it was a fancy

bottle of maple syrup.

so i made us some pancakes,

and tossed a few slices of

Canadian bacon

into the pan.

it was a fond farewell.

yellow journalism

in an attempt

to actually watch the news,

to get a world

view of what's going on

out there

in the wild

blue yonder,

i stumble back and forth

between cnn

and fox.

all they can talk about

though

is trump

and biden,

the drug addled kid,

the coke

in the white

house,

hookers and prostitutes,

court dates and other assorted

garbage

that few normal souls care about.

but they have to swing the vote

somehow,

the extreme left,

the radical right.

shoveling muck where they can.

yellow journalism

at its most troubling.

there is no middle anymore.

just screamers

and accusers on each side

of the aisle.

for a good time call my friend Tony

if you want to have

a nice wedding,

or a great funeral, you have

to go Italian.

they know what they're doing

when it comes

to those events.

if you want a good time,

you have to rent

a hall

and have all your Italian

relatives and friends

involved.

singing, dancing, drinking,

eating.

it's a wild fun time,

and same goes for the funeral.

Catholics know

what they're doing when

it comes to death.

they've got that down.

the smoke and mirrors,

everyone in black,

aunt Delores with her lasagna.

the candles burning, the priest.

and altar boys.

a few words in Latin.

the whole shebang,

a major production as they

show you the way out,

you'll get a lot of hysterical.

crying too,

as they carry you down 

cemetery road.

her love of crackers

i remember

how my grandmother loved crackers.

any kind of cracker.

saltine, wheat,

it made no difference.

she'd put

butter on them,

peanut butter,

jam,

fig goo,

she'd spread cheese

on a cracker,

jellies,

sometimes she'd cut a piece

of salami

and put it on a cracker

with a dab of mustard.

she loved crackers.

the crumbs always littering

the front of her

dress.

i can still see her opening

up a new

box, biting

through the plastic wrapping to

grab a few

to have with her tea.

Mike's cousin Beth

he introduced me to his cousin,

Beth,

and said we'd get

along perfectly fine.

a blind date

to go see the movie,

Five Easy Pieces

at the Cerberus 9 in Georgetown.

it was okay,

until she took my

hand in the dark

theater, the hand that she'd

been coughing into

since the previews began.

she then leaned over

to put her hand into my tub

of buttered popcorn,

before stealing a kiss.

i had the flu for a week.

iceberg dead ahead

people love, love

love,

the Titanic.

they can't get enough of the rusted

bucket

lying at the bottom

of the ocean.

a tragic tale indeed,

but

we need to go look at it,

write stories,

make movies,

romance

the sunken stone.

we need to

build little tubes to sink

down

to take a look

at 250 k a pop.

what we can't see is always

more interesting

than what we can.

hand in the fire

you learn

quickly not to put your hand

into a fire.

but when it comes

to people,

friends and lovers,

no matter how

many times you get burned,

you try just one

more time,

there's no lesson

learned.

the sinking in takes longer.

don't know much about history

do they teach

math anymore in school,

history,

what about grammar,

or science?

are there even books

to read?

or do they just hand

each

child a phone

and say, you've got this.

go on.

we're done with you,

go home.

My UFO encounter, true story

strangely,

a UFO, pulsating

with green

and red lights hovers

over my house

and lands

on top of my roof.

i look out and see

the silver

saucer

leaning precariously

against

the chimney.

the alien is out of his

craft,

a very skinny ghost like

fellow with big eyes,

and no clothes,

or any indication

if he's a she, or vice versa.

reminds me of a Barbie

doll, or Ken doll

my sister used to have

when we were kids.

i assume it's a man alien though,

by the tenor of his

voice and a discernable

Adam's apple

lodged in what i guess

is a throat.

he's

waving sheepishly

to me.

shrugging his shoulders.

whoops, my bad,

he says.

do you have a ladder

by any chance,

he's speaking in

English but with a British

accent.

i really could use

the loo too,

if you don't mind.

seems,

i've run low on plutonium,

and my

AAA account has expired.

my friend James, is

about a million light years

away, but should be

here in no time.

be a prince

and don't call the news,

or the authorities,

if you don't

mind.

mums the word, dear boy,

okay?

i just despise all that fuss,

and do you mind holding the ladder

for me,

i'm rather clumsy

on these things.

the cobblestone path to Santorini

they

were old burrows,

with sagged

backs,

covered

in woven

wool blankets,

striped,

but faded in color.

the man

at the bottom of the hill,

old as time

itself,

sat there

with his hat

where you tossed

your Euros

into, for a ride up,

but not back.

he motioned to the line

up

of donkeys.

i called mine 

Seabiscuit as we headed

up the treacherous

slippery

path to Santorini.

i whispered into his grey

ears, you can do it.

come on,

you can do it.

prayer

was necessary,

with

the rocks and ocean

just over

the stone wall,

a hundred feet down.

certain death.

central park

i see

a squirrel on the park

bench

stretched out

on his back, a cold

drink

in his paw,

his little mouth

sucking

on a straw.

the daily news

under his head.

he's wearing home made

sunglass

from bottle shards.

it's hot.

go ahead, sue

me,

he says.

go get your own

park bench.

time blindness

the new

illness of the young is called

time

blindness.

they refuse,

or can't be on time

for work,

or other things of importance.

appointments,

dates made.

they're just perpetually

late

for everything.

what next?

will the children

of this

wackadoodle generation

stop

being children for the rest

of their lives?

clean up in aisle six

there used

to be a sex store up the street,

next to the Unitarian Church,

and Dunkin Donuts,

but it's closed

down now.

it was two levels,

with an

elevator

and an escalator, with

shopping carts.

there were mannequins.

in the windows

wearing

sheer lingerie.

and a red pulsing sign

that said

open all night.

a middle aged woman

covered in tattoos

with pierced eyebrows

and blue hair

greeted you

at the door

and pointed to an area

of your

needs and desires.

toys and gizmos on aisle

three,

movies

and books on the second

floor,

the basement had chains

and cages.

at least, that's what i heard.

you were warned to be careful

in aisle six.

don't slip.

mind you, this is all hearsay

of course.

they were hungry

i realize

that i have too many credit cards

after my

wallet is stolen

from my car

in the middle of the night.

it takes all morning

digging up

bills

to call the customer service

numbers

to cancel them.

why so many cards?

the only one

the thieves used was

the Visa card

at Mcdonalds.

they had two egg McMuffins

each,

hashbrowns

and two large cokes.

they were hungry after a

night

of breaking into cars.

where do i hide it?

i was confused

when

she gave me a cactus

for my birthday.

a small pickle like plant

with sharp

needles sticking out the side.

ugly and sad

as all get out.

you don't need to

water it much

she said.

i'm perplexed,

but she's right about that.

the Harley

it's a long

scar, a deep old wound

on her leg,

one on her arm too.

they look

like shark bites.

just one trip around

the block

on the back of a motorcycle

with my friend

Ziggy, she says,

and down we went.

but they sewed

me back together again.

lift up my

shirt and see the scar

where they

put a new kidney in.

what about Ziggy, i ask her.

oh, he didn't

make it.

hosing them down

you see the firehoses

out in France,

in Israel.

just about all countries

in the world

are in some sort of trouble

that the need

a drubbing.

they are

turning the powerful

hoses onto

the crowds

of protestors.

here too.

each city ready

for the hose to be turned

on.

a giant spray

to wash those tears

and worries away.

the same old baloney on stale bread

we got nothing.

we got the old guy.

the orange guy.

the babbling word salad

vp.

we got no one in the wings

to vote for.

how can a country

so full of

scholars and philosophers,

brilliant young

souls,

good men

and women

have no one

to lead us

away from this horrible

path we've been on.

what's the point

in voting anymore?

it's the same old baloney,

time and time again.

lynnie blank

i can't believe

it's been five years since

Lynnie died.

i feel like i can call her

up and she's

there.

full of golf stories, jokes,

telling me

about her father, her next

new job.

her dates,

her heart aches.

her unpublished novel,

an erotic

tale on the links,

with ribald chicanery 

on the front nine.

if we laughed once,

we laughed a million

times.

i still have her green wine

glass on my

kitchen window sill.

what joy it brings when

the sun

shines through the glass

and i remember her,

eternally,

forever young.

twenty minutes with Tony

i remember

seeing tony Bennett

in concert

about twenty years ago.

he sounded

just like you expected him

to sound.

it was

like dropping the needle

on an old vinyl

record, but without

the skips or scratches.

he hit all the notes

as he sang

his classic songs.

leaving his heart once more

in San Francisco,

for the millionth time.

he did about twenty minutes,

smiled and waved

to the crowd,

and then someone

took his elbow and

walked him off.

the next group i don't

remember,

or the one

preceding tony either.

fly me to the moon

i'm

undecided if i want aliens

or not.

would they be

good for us,

or a bad influence.

steer us wrong,

or would they right

the ship that seems

to be sinking.

i guess all in all 

it would be fun

to have some different

forms of life

walking around.

jazz things up a little.

maybe we could take

tourist trips

on their shiny saucers

to places

beyond the sun.

the celery girl

we disagree.

on dinner, she's into celery

stalks

with a swab of peanut

butter,

while i prefer

the red meat.

a rib eye steak on the grill.

i hear her

crunching

from across the room

and ask her

to keep it down,

i can't hear the television

when she's

having dinner.

my advice, dig deep

we have

water and dried food in the cellar

for when

the bomb is dropped.

batteries

and a non flushable

toilet.

a closet full of toilet paper.

four ply.

a radio.

and several hazmat

suits

when we need to go outside

and scrounge around

for things.

we're so ready.

but please don't come around

knocking after

the big bang.

it's a little tight down

here.

my advice is to start digging

soon,

and dig deep.

don't wait until you see

the fiery sky and

that massive mushroom.

did you feel that?

is it an earthquake,

or  sonic

boom.

or is it thunder,

perhaps

God's foot

stamping the earth

with displeasure,

rattling us in our

chairs.

breaking the good China.

we'd better

turn on the news

to see what the hell

is going on out there,

though it's doubtful

we'll get the truth.

try the window.

not so gentle persuasion

the movie

wants us to buy things.

it's all part of it,

the music,

the plot,

the dialogue, all

of it

persuading our

minds,

and money.

telling us how to think,

how to behave,

what to buy.

it's subtle at times,

while other times,

it's smacking us in

the face.

smaller issues

with age

the smaller issues come

more into

focus

than worldly problems.

you want to know

what time a store

opens,

will there be a line,

will the coffee be fresh,

traffic,

a senior discount?

the wars

and troubles of

the planet

can go on and on and on

as they always

have,

but enough of

that.

i'm running late for

pickleball,

where's my new

racket?

Hi, I'm Barbie, what's up?

there's a gaggle of small

girls

in front of the movie theater

all dressed in pink.

it's Lord of the Flies

times ten.

they are chanting loudly

over and over again,

Hi, I'm Barbie, what's up?

their skinny arms

flailing about,

their eyes wide open

with hypnotic zeal.

mostly little white girls

with wealthy parents standing

behind them,

drinking lattes, and taking

pictures.

it's an event

before the woke movie even begins.

we cross the street and go see

Oppenheimer.

the atomic

bomb seems to be more of

our liking.

the tour de O and D trail

the serious bikers,

you have

to watch out for on the path.

they have their costumes on.

bright yellows and reds

with

numbers

on their back.

their bike shoes strapped

into the pedals.

helmets with cameras.

water bottles within

reach, clocks and odometers.

gps gizmos

attached to their handlebars.

they are on a mission.

in a race.

bent forward, determined

to get somewhere

to not be late.

crazy and dangerous

while they whizz by you

bending to tie a lace.