my ceiling, his floor

the man

above me used to have

a party

every weekend.

there'd be loud

music

and dancing

into the wee hours 

of the morning.

sometimes i'd call

the police and ask

them

to a pay a visit, to

settle things down.

which angered my

neighbor.

who gave me sneers

and the evil eye

when he'd see me

around.

if only he would have

invited me

once in a while.

all of this could

have been avoided.

what is that?

there's pretend

meat

in the stores now,

pleasing

the emaciated

vegans.

sticks of fake

butter,

taste like butter

the label says.

almost sugar

from a plant leaf.

coconut flour.

almond flour.

soy milk,

which isn't milk

at all.

i remember when

milk used to come

from an animal's

breast.

what's next, a wooden

apple,

a styro-foam

peach.

grapes made in the lab

from a petri

dish?

tourists

after

seeing the robbery,

the man

pushed into the path of

the oncoming

train,

we avoid

the subway.

we walk and take a

taxi

instead.

Central Park,

dead ahead.

staying close to each

other as

we walk up

5th Avenue.

are we scared about

what's around

each corner,

heading back

before the sun sets.

hiding our

money in our pant

legs.

yes.

cupid's first arrow

i see the young

man

in the grocery store

picking out

a small bundle

of flowers,

counting his money.

maybe it's his first

time.

he's carrying a Hallmark

card

and a small

gift in his hand.

he's just getting

started.

infatuated with 

someone, trying

to win her hand.

i nod and walk by,

saying nothing.

staying alive

stay

curious, stay thin,

stay

frugal,

have

friends.

laugh

and make amends.

extend

your life another

year or

two.

eat well

and drink less.

look both ways

when crossing

the road.

if your lucky

and the stars align

maybe

you'll make

it to a hundred.

but everyone else

will be

gone, or a mess.

she always returned calls

i hear

her phone ringing,

as she

lies

in her coffin.

it's in her hand, 

perpetually

there

for years.

and now in a death

grip.

i look over

my shoulder

and ask

if maybe

someone should

get that?

finally it

goes to voicemail

and we hear

her voice

one more time

before the casket

is lowered.

i'm out and about,

she says,

but i'll return your

call just as

soon as possible.

everyone

stares at their phones

and waits.

helping my neighbor Emily

i see my

friend Emily Dickinson,

who lives next door

at the elevator.

she has her cat

on a leash

which she cleverly

named number nine.

i almost mistake her

for a nun.

she's wearing all black

and has

a doily around her neck.

hey, i say.

hello sir, she says back.

she looks glum.

is everything

ok?

i ask her.

we both stare up at 

the lights

of the impossibly

slow elevator.

she shrugs and says,

i guess so.

i'm stuck on a poem.

i shake my head.

you're thinking too much

i tell her.

over thinking gets

you nowhere.

you just have to let

them rip.

blood and guts, 
Emily.

put a knife in them and

make them

scream.

she puts her hands over

her ears and closes

her eyes.

sorry, i tell her. sorry.

look, i'll stop by later

and you can run a few

of them

by me, okay?

thanks, she says.

i don't know what i would

do without you.

you're such a kind

gentleman.

i'll put some tea on.

the all Saints fiasco

as we

made frenetic love,

me and

rehab

patty,

in the guest room,

with

music on.

her religious

bracelet broke

in the mayhem.

off her wrist went

flying

all the saints.

there they went

St. Peter,

St. Anthony, St.

Ambrose.

St. Ignatius of Loyola

down

into the air

vent, clicking

like chicklets.

oh my

are you not

Dorothy

with her little dog

Toto,

in the house

as it spins

high in the sky caught

in a tornado.

the window

to the outside world

holding

nearly everything

you've ever

seen or done,

or thought.

the scroll of your

phone,

your picture box,

your

scattered memories.

all of it

in the air,

wind blown

and  tossed.

when the trees go down

i can hear

the buzz of saws cutting

the trees

away,

having fallen in the street

while it

rained last

night.

lines are down,

a crowd gathers.

i can see them

from the window.

dogs, and children.

cups of coffee in hand.

it's a cheerful

crowd.

i should go out and join

them,

be part of it,

but i'm not feeling it,

i need more sleep

as well.

lock up your cheese

it's a long

article on rats in the New

Yorker.

one for every person

in the city.

it talks about how they

jump ships

and 

get off at each port.

three different types.

it's how the black plague

started.

killing millions,

full of fleas

and lice.

there's nothing we can do

about it.

too much trash.

too many places to hide.

too much

food discarded on

the streets

and left behind.

they chew through walls

and wires.

they're everywhere.

just be careful

when you

go out at night, and lock

up your cheese,

please.

the silk tag

the child

will find

comfort in the soft silk

tag

of his blanket,

rubbing it gently

between

a finger

and thumb. feeling

safe and warm,

the comfort

of his home, the gentle

touch

of a mother

or father.

a good life starts here

knowing

he's not alone.

finding sleep

before

sleep, your mind wanders,

finding

the right pillow

to lie on.

the right soft thought

or memory

to fall upon.

you turn it over

and over,

slip in a prayer or two,

counting blessings,

then find

the right position

to let

the day fall away,

at last

you're through.

down Broadway

as we arrive

we see the city in silhouette.

grey,

mottled wet

by the rain

on our windshield,

so much

life in such a small

space, tall,

stretched out

along the Hudson.,

it all disappears

as we

enter the Lincoln Tunnel.

down Broadway.

it's not home,

but it feels like it

on this rainy day.

the darkened road

i remember

you falling asleep on my

shoulder

as we drove

the long trip home.

the endless

miles of

darkened road,

our hearts

warm.

what could wrong

with love

like that?

bee stings

as the bee

stings

he dies in retreat

leaving

behind

his vital organs.

beware

of the sting,

whether

giver or taker,

either

can be deadly.

she was unsure

as my mother

knelt to tie

my shoes, she told me

to be

good in church,

still not

trusting

the good

already in me.

here's fifty cents to put

in the basket.

now run along,

take your

catechism,

and bring me back

the bulletin.

see how much we loved?

the industry

of death

and marriage, is based

entirely

on guilt, on the weakness

of the human

heart.

we need to go big

and bright,

expensive.

we need to show loved

ones that we

cared.

bring me the gold box,

the carriage

drawn

wedding.

the five-tiered cake,

and the

ornate coffin to be

buried in.

see how much we loved?

with hammer in hand

she's always

looking for a nail to bang

down.

she carries

the hammer all day,

searching

for the loose nail,

the warped

board,

the broken tile on

the roof.

trying hard to make

it all right.

she's a busy girl

in this 

broken world.

this loneliness

her loneliness

has little to do with rain,

the grey

of clouds,

the soft percussion of

weather on

her window panes.

it has nothing to do with

love either.

or lack of friends.

the small apartment

she lives in.

it's deeper.

much deeper than these

simple things.

when you arrive

is there

anything of nature that

swells your

heart more?

puts tears into your eyes,

after a long absence,

as the love

of your own children

greeting you at the door,

when you

arrive?

man overboard

i wonder

about the ark. Noah's ark.

how did

the animals get along.

how did

the lions not eat

the zebras.

how did the snakes

not eat the bird's

eggs,

spiders and bees?

mosquitoes?

the smell of it all

and those screeching monkeys.

not to mention Noah

sharing

his cramped cabin 

with his wife

for forty days

without a fight.

kind of unbelievable.

one or the other would

have been overboard

in a weeks time.

as the ship sinks

the news

shows ten thousand people

in one day

from

other countries 

illegally crossing the border,

knee deep in

the river,

cutting through the coils

of barbed wire.

they have back packs.

kids in hand.

they want out

of whatever hell they were

once stuck in.

come on in, we tell them.

make yourself at home.

food, no problem,

shelter, you want a job,

okay. we got this.

this is the land of opportunity.

come on aboard.

give us your tired, your poor,

your huddled masses

yearning to be free,

there's always room for more.

nothing to see here

nothing to see here

the cop

says as we roll down the window

to take a look

at the accident.

move on, he says, waving his

sparkling

crimson flare,

let's go, 

nothing to see here, he says,

move it along.

but it isn't true.

we're slowing down

because there is something

to see here.

i can't breathe

don't make me

go,

i plead on my hands and knees.

i don't know

any of these people,

and you know how i hate

being trapped

in a room

doing small talk

with strangers.

before i even get there

i'm ready to leave.

i'm sure they're wonderful

people.

all them lovely.

smart and educated, 

good citizens,

kings and queens,

but please, please,

where's my rescue inhaler,

i can hardly breathe.

donna reed with a whip

i shouldn't have

opened her medicine cabinet

or peeked

into her purse.

the crazy pills,

the knife, the gun,

the map

of something buried

in the woods.

and what's this under

the bed?

a leather whip,

and a wig.

handcuffs?

to me she was always

Donna Reed taking

a fresh batch of cookies

out of the oven.

but all of that has

changed.

over twenty dollars a tooth

i think my

dentist is gouging me,

and not just

with drills

and needles, sharp

metal tools,

yesterday she took

thirty-six x rays

of my mouth,

and i only have twenty

two teeth.

five hundred dollars

payable by cash

or check.

she insists on me 

coming in

every six months,

regardless,

cavities or not.

she showed me a plan

yesterday

for gum enhancement,

that's next.

the basement wedding

a wedding

that takes place in a basement

with no

witnesses

held by a man

found on the internet

an hour

before it starts, is more

than likely

a mistake and doomed.

yeah.

i get it.

i know that now.

a climate solution

the weather

is to blame for nearly

everything

today.

rain or snow, heat or cold.

we need

to get back to where

we were before.

you know.

clean air and water,

no people, just

dinosaurs.

a wave from the car

i'll call you,

i tell her, but i don't.

whatever

we had

has ended. not in a furious

battle of right

and wrong,

but with a whimper,

a wave

from the car,

so long.

you can leave now

as she

lay in her rented bed

in hospice,

being fed with

a baby spoon,

and a drip

from a tube, i'd

whisper into her ear,

you can go

now mom. 

it's okay.

no need to hang on

like this,

her brown eyes

searching

for something, her

body a cruel 

pile

of skin and bones.

let go, i'd tell her.

it's time. 

you can leave now.

go on. go home.

strange love

swimming in the ocean

at night, without a moon,

is different.

it's a new kind

of love, with darkness

being the difference.

the water is the same.

it's cold, and the waves

keep breaking upon

us. it's unsafe and unwise

to go in there,

and yet we do.

strange love once more

making us insane.

the recipe

folded

in a book of recipes

i find

her recipe for stew.

undated, but

stained

and frayed,

often used.

a dead sea scroll

of sorts.

i'd never it seen before

when she

was here.

beef cubed, onions

and carrots.

broth,

salt and pepper,

mushrooms.

a cup of wine.

she was always holding

back so much

that would please

me.

her foot always straddling

the door.

picnic at the lake

we find

on the path the white

stones

of bones.

a skull.

a wolf perhaps.

a fox.

no blood, or ravaged

skin,

but teeth

intact.

something has died

here,

along the way

to the lake

where we'll open

our sandwiches

and eat,

drink our lemonade

and tell

each other how

beautiful

it all is.

the destination wedding

i get a wedding

invitation

to a wedding in Italy.

it's a brochure

and a pamphlet,

coupons are provided.

rates of rooms, 

dining

possibilities are suggested

by the bride to be

and groom.

a giant map of Italy

is inside.

there's a picture

of a gondola

and another one of

a bowl of raviolis,

next to a loaf

of bread

and bottle of red wine.

it's his third

wedding and her number

five. maybe

i 'll wait for the next one,

something a little closer.

the maids are coming on thursday, maybe

i hesitate in using the word

maid,

because

now you're supposed to say

housecleaners,

or something,

but my maid Milagro

is late again.

sometimes she arrives

every thirty days,

and other times,

it's two weeks.

8 am, or two pm.

who knows.

i'll get a text at midnight

telling

me tomorrow.

she's all over the place.

i try to reason with her

to set a schedule, but she

yells at me

in Spanish,

and says that i don't understand.

she's right i don't.

i just shake my head

and leave the key under

the mat and go to work.

cleaning up of course, before

she gets there.

the studio apartment

when starting out,

with your

own small place, a studio

apartment

facing

the dumpsters

in the buildings driveway.

your furniture

was cheap

and wobbly.

but you made due.

everything from Ikea,

or Target.

sheets, cups

and plates.

silverware that you will

eventually use

to open cans

of paint.

the walls were thin

and the ceiling

leaked.

were they the good old days?

not really.

but you slept well

and you ate.

do this to live longer

my neighbor,

Ella May, has a YouTube

channel

now,

who doesn't?

something about

plants, my

aunt Delores has one too.

red sauce is her

thing.

my mother

is on Rumble.

and Tik Tok, telling

the world

the benefits of vinegar

when she cleans.

my cousin is on

Instagram.

my sister's on Twitch.

everyone is making

a little money

telling

us how to live.

i saw an ex wife on

there the other

day.

telling everyone about

red light therapy

while

standing on her head.

let's keep them sick

let's keep them

fat

and sick,

diabetic.

the members of the board

at general

mills

all agree upon.

more sugar, more chemicals

they can't pronounce.

do we have a red

cereal yet?

why not? get on it.

we need a chip

like frito-lays does.

the kind

you can't stop eating.

with no

Nutrional value.

we need processed foods

that will

keep the doctors busy

with

pharmaceuticals.

come on now, we're

all in this together.

only 70 percent of the people

are obese.

let's go.

we can do better.

let's get back to work.

more donuts, more cookies,

more sodas, more

cakes and pies.

let's pour that vegetable

oil

down their throats until

they burst

at the sides.

can i get an Amen.

alright, now get to the labs.

we have people

to kill.

san francisco and elsewhere

it's as if

a great war has occurred

the wounded

and broken

have washed upon

the shores

of cities.

the hulls of them

lie about,

the lifeless

souls

stretched or balled

upon

the sidewalks, the stores.

shell shocked,

lost

and sunken,

though now back

home.

half mast

my father,

long retired from the navy,

but not life,

calls me late at night,

he sounds

out of breath.

i can hear a woman in the background,

his new

girlfriend.

he's ninety-five,

she's eighty-nine.

he whispers

that i have to send him

some Viagra,

pronto.

he thinks my cell phone

is a pill

dispensary.

i'm having trouble

here.

i've never had this problem

before.

i tell him no.

call your doctor in the morning

and ask him.

i'm not going to be the one

to kill you.

he hangs up

angry and calls my sister

in Florida.

she says no too.

he's got six more children

to try

and go to.

i can't sleep the whole night

because of this.

trying to shake the visual

out of my head.

there's ketchup on your shirt

do you tell people

about

the spinach between

their teeth,

or

that there's a flag of toilet

paper

stuck to their

shoe, being

dragged around.

do you inform them

that they've

missed a button

on their shirt or blouse, 

or

that their

shoe is untied, or that

there's shaving

cream in their ear.

depends on if you

like them, or

not.

under a spell

we go to the comedy

club

to see the hypnotist

do his act.

in no time

he's putting people under

and 

asking them to cluck

like chickens.

with a few

strident suggestions

they believe

and obey his every

command.

he reminds me so much

of todays politicians.

dressing up for the day

i dip

my foot out the door,

testing

the air.

hot or cold?

no rain in sight.

what to wear?

i find

shorts from yesterday

on the floor.

a t-shirt

from the top drawer.

socks?

sure, why not.

it's good 

to get dressed up

once in a while.

the Rolex watch

when flush

he bought a lot of things

he didn't need.

another house,

another car,

a Rolex watch.

fancy clothes and appliances.

all gone now, but

the watch.

he wears it when

going out

to bars along the beach.

shiny bait on a hook,

still biding time,

still promising

a dream.

nothing to see here

i find

footprints

in the garden along

the edge

of house,

shoes have

been here beside

the window.

they were looking in

to see

what i was

up to.

but i'm sure they

left

early, bored

in seeing little,

leaving disappointed,

with more houses

to look into.

burning leaves

the winter

fire

burns in the barrel

in the back yard.

the way my father did it,

when he

raked leaves.

there was a look in his eyes,

standing

by the flames,

dipping his hands across

the yellowed

heat.

some childhood

memory

that would come back

to him.

sometimes

there would

be tears on his cheeks.

was it lost love,

or just ashes and tinder

from

burning leaves?

you're free to go now

when have

you not been doing paper work?

at what age

did it begin.

the first school day,

until now,

yes,

even now, there's

the pencil,

the paper,

the eraser, the ink pen.

loans,

and agreements.

marriages

and divorces.

cars to buy,

cars to sell.

and now this document,

when things

don't end well.

the final decree.

sign here.

dot the i, cross the t.

initial

here and here

and here.

don't forget page two

and page

three.

you're free to go now.

updating one's social pages

i think

there's trouble in paradise,

as they like

to say.

she's no longer posting

on her

social pages

pictures of

her trips, her dinners,

her 

everyday

encounters with her

significant other,

her one

and only true love

she used to say.

two smiling faces

together.

where are

the hearts in the sand

and snow?

an image of a ring

has disappeared, the posting

of a date.

everything has vanished.

how quickly

it all seems to unfold.

lips finding lips in the rain

we get out of the rain.

the wind

folding

our umbrella upon us.

we're wet.

but strangely happy

to be under this awning

together.

in fact we're closer

than we've ever been.

our lips find each other

as the rain pours,

the wind blows.

it's a wonderful thing,

this storm.

hopefully there are more

storms ahead.

marching left

when she got

her third

cat.

i began to worry.

and then

she let her hair grow

grey,

and began to drink

herbal tea.

she started to play

the banjo

and whittle

ash trays and salad

bowls from fallen

trees.

she began to recycle,

and grow

tomatoes

and celery.

who was she now

with the rainbow flag,

hanging

from her porch.

this new person

was all new

to me.

the fast talk car wash

bedazzled by

the fast

talk,

and cheap promises

by Raul,

i erroneously

sign up for unlimited

carwashes

until the end of time.

i stare

at the small print as i

wait for my

car to arrive

at the other end

of whirring machines

that are spinning

and streaming

water upon

my car.

i go in to ask for a cancellation

of the unlimited

washes,

but am told i have

to do this online.

find the web site and

scan the bar code

the young girl says.

seven hours later,

i sigh. no luck, i'm

apparently stuck with

a forty dollars a month

payment

for a car

i hardly drive, but

forever clean and shiny.

i want my money back

you again, really?

the gypsy fortune teller

says to me

as i go in to get my

money back.

everything you

told me was wrong,

i tell her.

sorry, she says, no

refunds, and points

to the sign

above the door.

you said she was going

to be the love of

my life.

my soul mate.

she ended up being

the worst person i've

ever known,

an evil lying witch.

the gypsy shrugs, my bad,

she says.

you can't get them all

right. i had a bad day,

like you never made

a mistake?

geeze marie.

tell you what,

i'll give you a free

reading today,

no charge.

have a seat, relax, let

me go get my new crystal

ball,

it just arrived by UPS.

amazon.

haven't even opened

the box yet.

maybe just a little lizard on my leg

i see a line

of drunk

people standing outside

the open all

night

tattoo parlor.

young couples holding

hands,

old men

and women with

their sleeves

rolled up

reciting words that

they want

inscribed.

something poignant

and wise.

they discuss

Chinese symbols,

or birds,

or reptiles, some

sort of animal

that they want forever

crawling up

their arms

and thighs.

the truck pulls up

to drop

off another drum of

ink.

it's a gold mine.

love language

she wants

to know my love language,

what's

that, i ask her.

you know, she says.

are you a giver,

a taker.

are you touchy

feely,

or do you need your

own space.

are you a verbal

kind of guy?

depends,

i tell her.

depends on what?

on who i'm with

at the time.

i'm like the weather

when it comes

to that pseudo psychology

kind of thing.

sometimes it rains

and other times

it's a clear blue sky.

towards the end

i remember

my grandfather 

near the end, making

life easy

on himself

with his Sansa belt

pants

and loafers.

his pull over shirts.

he was done

with buttons

and shoelaces.

snaps and zippers.

belts.

eyebrows

and nails all needing

a trim.

sometimes he wouldn't

even get dressed

in the morning,

he'd walk around with a

blanket

and a cup

of instant coffee

in his hand, telling you

about some

war he might have

been in.

tell me how you really feel

you

read about the woman

who slowly

poisoned

her husband

by sprinkling arsenic

in his

cereal each morning.

just enough

to make him ill,

but not enough to kill him

right away.

and he pouring 

anti-freeze into her

smoothies.

not altering

the taste, but just a

splash,

to send her reeling

when at last

it kicked in.

they found them both

on the porch

swing, holding hands

as they died,

each never really knowing

what the other

was thinking.

a great spot to be buried

as if picking

out furniture for a room,

the drapes

and rug,

the pictures

to be hung.

she stands at the gate

of Memorial

Park

and says, i want to be

buried here.

look at the view.

the trees, and flowers.

i can see

the river

from that little hill

right over

there.

maybe a nice stone

bench beside me

so that others can visit,

and sit,

while we talk.

having a field day

are there

conspiratorial dark

forces

controlling

the world.

infecting us with

ways

of thought

and behavior.

who's at the wheel.

big pharma,

big corporations

the government,

the dark

web?

is it Elon,

or Gates,

Zuckerman, perhaps?

or just the devil

himself

having a field

day.

the blank canvas

i can't fathom

having

the skill and talent

of an artist.

his or her steady hand,

the minds

eye,

deciding on blue

or green.

when to dip the brush

into red,

or white.

it's a strange

and wonderful gift

to take

the blank canvas,

and bring

life.

having a bad day

dogs too,

have bad days.

they wake up grumpy

staring out

the window

at the rain.

ruminating about some

dog they

were once in love with.

the beagle that got

away.

they need some time

alone.

i don't try

to rub their ears,

or belly.

i don't throw them a ball,

or sweet talk them.

i say okay, okay.

no worries, then

i carefully

go up to them

and lay down

a nice new bone.

freshly baked dough

i go to the German

bakery

on Lee Highway just

to feel

the buns,

the rolls, to handle

the merchandise.

so soft and squishy,

the dough.

baguettes and croissants.

my culinary Achille's heel.

warm and freshly baked,

right out of the oven.

after a round or two

of circling the store,

my hands all over

the merchandise,

the baker comes out and

chases me with his

rolling pin.

they put my picture

on the door.

jealous of his yard

i admire

the way you've trimmed

your hedges,

cut

clean

and squared

the shrubbery.

and that one over there.

pointed

like a tall

hat on a roman

soldier,

and the yard, the lines

that criss cross,

so green,

weedless

and wonderful.

it reminds

of the greens at

Augusta.

please, when you have

a moment,

show me how to do that.

time for another great flood

is it the lack

of parenting, the absent father

or mother.

is it the absence of spirituality,

church,

the community.

what is it drowning the world

in chaos,

crime

and dysfunction.

technology?

staring into the abyss

of phones

with no human connections

anymore?

self indulgence,

narcissism?

the weather, maybe.

covid.

inflation,

politics.

what's made us sick

and 

unbelievably sad

and cruel?

Lazurus

where does it hurt,

she asks me,

as i lie

on the massage table

with a towel

around my waist.

everywhere,

i tell her.

she smiles and says.

you work

hard, don't you.

she lights a few candles

turns on the soft

music,

then begins,

from the head down

to my feet

massaging me,

her hands are strong

and nimble,

the oil warm,

without a word,

slowly she brings me back 

to life again.

the ice man

we'd hear

the horses pulling

the wagon

up the street and run

out into the yard.

the ice man

would ring his bell,

then

my mother would come

out with

her money

and lead

the man

around the back

of the house

to where she wanted

the block

of ice to go.

but we couldn't get

enough of

the old horses.

sway back now,

their enormous

legs,

their brown eyes.

they seemed still proud

despite

everything.

aren't you a little cutie pie

when you're a kid,

maybe one

or two

years old, elderly

people

like to muss your hair,

pinch your

cheeks

and say things like,

well, look at you.

aren't you a little

cutie pie,

they take hold of you

and raise you to the sky.

passing you around

the room.

it's almost like

they can't believe

they're still making

children,

keeping the world

alive.

here's the guy i use

as you get older

you

accumulate a rolodex

of sorts.

there's a plumber

on it,

an electrician,

a doctor or two.

your dentist.

there's a number to call

if the power goes

down,

or the cable, or

internet

is out.

there's the pharmacy,

the dog pound,

never used.

a painter.

there's the insurance

company,

the condo board,

the tree trimmers.

everyone of them useful

at some point.

even you.

the beach vacation

it was the family

vacation

to the eastern shore.

the car 

packed with suitcases

and chairs,

buckets and toys.

towels

and pillows.

the kids in the back

seat, squirming.

bellowing a

are we there yet

chorus.

a four hour drive over

the bridge and down

50, through Berlin

and Cambridge.

Salisbury.

stopping for ice cream

at the Dairy Queen

along the road.

seven days and nights.

of sand, of surf.

a hotel on the shore.

all saved in pictures,

videos,

now in boxes,

in the cellar.

on a shelf somewhere.

with

the children now grown,

the marriage

dissolved.

tell me all about your cat

just as i'm

a selective reader, so

it goes

that i'm a selective

listener too.

people often say to me,

are you listening

to me?

did you hear what

i just said?

some of it, i usually

reply, or of course,

my dear.

go on tell me more

about your cat.

it's a great story,

i can't wait for the

punch line.

is it true they have

nine lives?

this one time in band camp

you can't be

in the news anymore.

be a celebrity,

or politician, or someone

of importance

to the community

or the world,

the girl you kissed

in the ninth grade

at the drive-in,

trying to unbutton her

blouse,

will come forward

and bury you

in a grave.

the hard flush

the groom,

tipsy, stands beside me 

in the bathroom

relieving

himself

of champagne.

me too.

he's still in his tuxedo,

and me

in my once a year

black suit.

he looks over at me,

in the eyes

not down,

as custom calls for

and says,

i think i made

a mistake.

i shake my head and smile.

been there

done that

a few times, i tell him,

then give

the urinal a hard flush.

the road trip tells all

you find out early

in the game

if the relationship will go on

for the long

run.

the weekend trip

is a test.

will she ask you to stop

before you get to

the bridge

to use a bathroom?

will she bring five bags

to your one.

how will she unpack,

will she take

up the entire bathroom

with her cosmetics

and other assorted

mysterious girl things.

how long will she be

in the shower.

will she be mad when you

switch to the game

at a late hour,

after she's slipped

into something slinky

and black?

in the ways of grocery

i often wonder

as the clerk at the grocery store

bags

the goods

that i have purchased,

are they trained for

this.

does someone teach them

to separate

the meat,

the perishables.

fruits and vegetables

and what not.

setting aside such things

as bottles of ammonia

or pesticides.

each with their own

plastic bag

wrapped tight.

who told them to put

the bread on top, 

to ask

if we want to carry out

the jug of milk separately,

as they roll

the newspaper up.

do they figure it out 

naturally, by instinct,

or is there

a higher up that schools

them

in the ways of grocery?

the mail order gymnast

while looking for love

online late at night,

i meet a Russian gymnast on

a dating site

called Russiangymnasts.com.

she's beautiful

and small

and arrives in the mail

in a breathable box.

the UPS driver

sets her on the curb

beside my house.

i carry her in

and unseal box, then set

her on the couch.

immediately she catapults

herself across the room

swings on the chandelier

then does a serious

of flips and cartwheels

landing in my arms.

it's love at first sight.

the rust at work

i see the rust

on the hinges of the old gate.

i admire

its persistence.

it's work,

staying up late

to melt away the metal

in tiny orange bites

collectively.

i get it.

i fight my own rust

every day.

relentless as it is.

crossing over

there's a leak

at border and the whole

world knows

it.

they come

seeking asylum,

seeking

the dream.

they cross over.

with no job, no home,

no place to go.

thousands

upon thousands.

the country

sags, it groans,

soon it will burst

at the seams.

good will and kindness

doing us all in.

first day on the picket line

it's only

day one of the strike.

the workers

are out there with their

signs.

giddy with dance,

and smiles.

holding

their cups of coffee,

their

food and drinks,

their music on.

it's early in the game.

they want more pay,

they want to work

less time.

they want

more this, more that.

but winter is coming.

snow,

and rain, ice.

we'll see how long

this lasts,

when the bills aren't paid

and the baby 

is crying.

what melts your butter?

what do you do for

fun,

she asks,

sky diving,

mountain climbing,

fishing,

golf?

taking to the high seas

in a kayak?

where do you find joy

in your life.

what do you look forward

to each day,

each night?

what melts your butter,

my friend.

i smile and say,

a good book,

then

the afternoon nap.

who's leg is this?

i get a text image

of a woman's

leg.

a long bare leg,

tanned,

a red high heel

on the foot.

no words,

no name attached,

and the number

is one

i'm not familiar with.

i go through

the rolodex

in my mind

of legs i have known.

do i take

a chance and ask,

who is this?

to whom does this

leg belong?

he played centerfield

i remember

him

drifting back, back,

back in the grass field

to magically snag a

long fly

ball from going over

the fence

in deep center field.

a final out.

it's as clear

a memory

as any that i have.

so it saddens me to

hear that

he's died

in alone in a Florida trailer,

his last home

of kidney failure.

drugs

getting the best of him.

he was an amazing

ball player.

the briefcase

i had a brief case

once of

brown leather.

i kept pens and

blank sheets of paper

inside.

occasionally

a sandwich for lunch.

not much else.

it felt

good to snap

it open,

then close it,

to let it swing importantly

by my side.

it's in a closet

somewhere now,

empty

except for

the dried ink of pens

still inside.

wind in your sails

the wind is in your sails

when young,

you hardly

need

to work at it, it all comes

naturally,

with ease.

you move fast

through the water,

you set your sights on

land,

your goals,

using the stars to guide you

along.

it's a mystical journey,

everything

and everywhere

still unknown,

and then suddenly

you're old.

the wind has died down,

so now you row,

two oars in the sea,

then one.

five dollars a night

the worst

hotel i ever stayed in 

was on

the boardwalk

in ocean city, Maryland.

the Broadmoor.

1969.

a home for run aways

and drunks

for the most part.

five dollars a night.

no sheets,

no pillows.

beat up and stained

old mattresses

with prison stripes.

bunk beds.

there were

open windows with

no screens.

a bathroom down

the hall

shared by the whole

floor,

with a toilet that had

trouble flushing.

but the view was great.

we could see

the boardwalk,

and the beach,

the ocean stretched

out from side to side.

a nice breeze would flow

through the window

holding the aroma

of fried chicken and

French fries.

the sugary clouds of cotton

candy.

it wasn't a room for

sleeping necessarily,

it was more of a place

to pass out.

all spice?

i look at the top shelf,

almost

unreachable as i stretch

my arm

and hand

to grab

a few small jars of

spices.

spices i rarely use,

left over

by a previous but

temporary tenant..

i turn them over to

sprinkle some

out, but they're dried

and jammed.

clumps tumble around

inside.

garlic salt, celery,

hot pepper,

basil in a jar, bay leaves.

what's this?

all spice.

how is that possible.

using my old hook

shot,  i fling each across

the kitchen

to swish into the can.

game over.

they're watching us

there are cameras

everywhere. everyone

has one.

they're in the sky,

in your car,

on your bike,

on each corner.

on each

house,

there is an eye on

everything you do.

even your phone is

watching and listening

to you.

there are no secrets

anymore.

be careful

with what you say

and do.

your mileage may vary

the world

is 

telling you that your

mileage

may vary

with nearly everything

you buy.

the numbers

may not add up,

the calorie count,

the amount

of sugar

or carbs, or seed oils

embedded

in the so called heart

healthy

product.

can anyone be trusted

anymore.

four out five

doctors used to recommend

Lucky Strikes

and which whiskey

you should

pour.

reserved seating

we settle

into our reserved seats

at the theater,

dead center in the back

that we ordered

three days

in advance.

the chairs are

big and comfy, pleather

maybe,

with cup holders

that move mechanically

forward

and back,

depending on

how much room you

need.

i put the enormous

tub of popcorn

in my lap, the drinks

are in their holders.

she's in charge of

the twizzlers

and junior mints. napkins.

just twenty more minutes

of ads

and previews before

the show starts, 

i tell her 

we have one more chance

for a quick restroom

dash.

no longer the boss of me

when the mind

slips, when words 

are suddenly unretrievable,

the keys lost,

a bill

forgotten,

and the refrigerator

is 

the place where you find

your phone

and watch.

you start making notes

for yourself

and sticking

them everywhere.

in the end you're

an employee

of life,

no longer a boss.

pretty please, with sugar on top

i just want

a thimble of regret,

remorse,

a tiny

smidgen of an apology

an

oops, my bad.

that's all i want out

of you.

not a full confession,

or falling down

on your sword.

just a little sorry,

okay?

can you give me that.

pretty please,

with sugar

on top?

the long dismal letter

when angry

and hurt,

i need to write 

it out in a long

letter

detailing

the reasons for my

disappointment,

and dismay,

but when

i'm happy

with things, content

and

easy going, 

a phone call will do

or maybe just

a shout out,

like yo, or hey.

as the plot slows

does the book

put me to sleep, as

the plot slows, 

or is it

just me

being tired,

being up late with

the last light on.

is it the comfort of

the bed,

the pillow,

the cool sheets

with the windows

open, or is

it the hard day behind

me, the hard

day ahead.

what's making my eyes

flutter and close

as i turn another page.

maybe all of it

is making

me dose.

bird brain

it was mistake,

but when she returned from

Costa Rica

on a new age

mumbo jumbo spiritual retreat,

she wanted a bird.

a colorful big bird

who could

speak.

she bought a giant cage

for the living

room, big enough

to fit three people in.

the bird learned our names.

he sang, he whistled,

he fluttered his clipped wings.

but he was a biter too.

having bit my thumb

when i tried to reach in

to pet him.

before i read the newspaper

she'd have it

stretched out

on the bottom of his cage

to catch his

endless droppings.

and then he started to make

a loud siren noise

at all hours of the night.

what can we do,

i asked my then wife?

this thing will outlive us.

we can't just put him outside,

he can't fly. she said.

we can't eat him either, i

added in, there's very little

meat on birds like that.

which made her roll her

eyes and sleep in the other

room, that night.

finally we found a new home

for him on e-bay.

lowest bidder got the prize.

i got out of my cage too

not long after that.

Oh Canada

she reminded me

that she was from Canada

nearly

every day.

i grew tired of it, though.

the maple

leaf sweaters

and hats,

the giant maple leaf flag

on her porch.

always with the maple syrup

and talking

about the Mounties

and herds of Moose.

oh, you people don't know

what snow is,

she'd say.

speaking

in some sort of French and

English

mish mash.

she'd sing all the verses

of   Oh Canada

on Canada Day

and would refuse to participate

in the 4th of July,

or Thanksgiving.

those are your holidays,

she'd say. not mine.

and me left behind

i think about

John nearly every day.

his guitar,

his beard, his bohemian

nature,

his kindness

and beret.

the Fiat he was always

working on.

his cat.

we'd talk on the phone

like girlfriends.

covering

everything

under the sun.

we worked together,

were poor

together.

we shot hoops together,

played sandlot games

throughout

the summers.

we were

best man in each other's

wedding.

strange to have him go

at such a young

age.

and me left behind.

too many bong hits

i run into

Susie at the grocery store.

we used to date

back in the 70's.

she drove a silver

trans-am,

loved her marijuana

and wine.

but went to church

every Sunday.

we hug.

she smells of cannabis

freshly smoked.

the kids are grown.

she's single

again.

i ask her about so and so.

or if she remembered

the time

we did this

or that.

she looks baffled,

no, she says. shaking

her head.

i don't remember any of

that.

how's your mom?

and then it's over

is life

like a rollercoaster?

maybe.

the giant hills

and 

dips,

free falling.

the curves along

the way.

the thrills

and fear.

the speed of it all.

you have

to hang on tightly,

and sometimes

let out

a scream.

then it's over.

an apple on her head

it was Jimmy's BB gun.

he got

it for Christmas one year.

his father being

in the army, thought it

was best

to start early

with weapons.

we'd set

up cans in the back

yard and knocked

them down.

but we got bored

with that before long.

i tried to talk my sister

into putting

an apple on her head,

but she refused.

girls were no fun

back then.

future bacon

i go to the hen house

to grab

a few eggs

for breakfast,

the pig in his trough

gives me a look,

because he knows

that breakfast means

bacon and sausage.

i tell him, not today.

i'm having French toast.

relax, roll around

in the mud. you have

a few more days off.

the lap dog and the princess

i remember

her purse.

a shiny black

Prada's thing.

it was covered in cobwebs,

having never

been opened in

the last

ten years, except

to get out her compatct

and a tube

of lipstick.

i never once saw

money

in her hand.

she had the penthouse,

the limo,

the diamonds,

but spending a dime

on me

was out of the question.

and the love making

was horrible,

to top it off.

she told her therapist

that i was

her lapdog.

which came out later

when

i ran.

always something

he buys a place

in Florida, he's officially

a snow bird

now,

i ask him what he does

in Florida

during the winter

months.

the same things i do

here,

he tells me.

golf and i ride

my bike,

but minus the shoveling

of snow,

the scraping

of ice

bugs though, are an

issue

as are the hurricanes.

let the good times roll

is it luck,

or fate, or destiny.

is it

God's will.

has your ship come

in?

is it your turn

at last?

what's behind

this stretch 

of good fortune 

and good times?

maybe it's best 

not to ask,

why jinx it,

just let them roll

and hope

it lasts.

be quick about it

it doesn't matter

anymore.

there's room 

now,

more

space

to stretch out in.

more quiet,

more fun

more love,

more sleep, more

of nearly 

everything but

pain

and drama.

cut them loose,

and be

quick about it.

the family bag of chips

i feel guilty.

i just ate a family bag of

potato chips.

why did they have to put

the word family

on the side

of the bag.

it's just me dipping

my hand

into the bag eating

one chip after

another

until i think, oh well,

it's almost

empty, i might as well

finish it

and get it out of the house.

i then turn the bag

upside down

to get the remaining

salty shards.

done. now where's

that family

beverage?

oh, so that's how they do it

as a child

you find someone, a friend,

an adult,

someone on tv

that you admire

and you begin

to emulate them.

mimic their behavior,

take on

their persona

whether real

or not.

you're just trying

to find your

way in the world

having been raised by wolves

with no one to look

up to.

you see how  these others

get it done.

they seem to have

life figured out.

and so off you go

being them in some

imaginary fashion

until you find your

own way,

your own wrong or right.

the first love

is there a first love

in every

life?

the boy or girl

next door.

infected you are

by infatuation,

a spell of sorts

that quickens

your pulse, making

your heart race.

a smile

from them sends

you to the moon,

and if they take your

hand

in theirs, well, that's

just the end all.

who are you?

on her death

bed

she began to speak Spanish

to her daughter

mistaking her

for the maid,

Milagro.

strange how

the mind and heart

try to figure

it all out,

when passing over

into the next life.

going through it

the afterlife

is different for each of us.

some

crumbling

into pieces, angry,

and crazed

while others

bury

the pain.

the grief of losing a

loved one, only to have

it come out

later

in a wave

of debilitating 

sorrow.

some wear death on their

sleeve.

making it a point

of survival.

taking to the street

for the cause.

and some

absorb and grieve 

then move on.

taking with it the wisdom

that it bestows.

making their life

a kinder and gentler

place

to be.

in line banking

i like

going to the bank

because there are no lines.

no one

goes to the bank

to do their transactions

anymore

just me

and a few other mid century

antiques.

i like to pour a bucket

of change

into the machine,

patiently

waiting for the churning

to stop

to get my receipt.

i like to stand at the desk

and fill out

deposit slips

or withdrawals,

tens and twenties please.

i say hi to the tellers,

Fred, Kamil and Margie.

the manager,

the assistant manager.

young whippersnappers, 

but they all know my name.

i grab a lollipop

to suck on while i wait

for my check to clear.

i like the bank.

it's nice and quiet 

in there.

she loves to dance

she loves to dance.

her life

is a dance.

she's a ballerina

at heart.

she's a

twirling top

spinning around.

she hears music,

just a note

of sound

and away she goes

on the tips

of her toes.

arms in the air

like a lovely swan.

for few dollars more

the job

is in the hood. in the worst

part of town.

the mayor had her car

hijacked there

just last week.

there's a crack house

on every corner.

do i want to go

there for a few bucks?

is it worth 

it?

do i pack heat, put

on a bullet proof vest?

take out the pepper spray?

where do i park?

will it be dark before

i finish?

i check the crime rate

for that area

of town.

it's all lit up in red

indicating

danger

in a five mile radius

of the address.

how do i tell the nice

young couple 

who just moved here

from Wyoming, no?

they really want this

periwinkle

wallpaper

up in the baby's room,

before he's born.

chicken and the egg

so wait a minute,

i ask

the farmer.

mr. jones in his overalls

and straw hat,

boots,

and a big belt with

a horse buckle.

so wait a minute, i say

again.

you mean to tell me

that a chicken

don't need to have sex

with a rooster to

lay all these eggs?

that's right, he says.

and lately, we're on

the short end of the stick

too

with all these test tubes.

the body count

the news

is not good.

the anchor points to the tote

board,

letting us

know how many are dead

in the latest

flood, or fire

or virus outbreak.

how many

missing.

the bigger the number

the better.

six thousand, ten thousand

can you give

me twelve, the weatherman

says.

stayed tuned

will bring you up

to date

coverage and do a recount.

we

promise to fill you

with dread.

the first wish

i meet

a generous Genie

at the beach.

she's in an old 

Mateus wine

bottle that's washed

up on the shore.

i give it a rub,

and out she pops.

ponytail and J Lo

pants.

she tells me

that i get a hundred

wishes

whenever i want.

a hundred?

sure she says.

why not?

well most Genies only

offer

three wishes.

hmm. she says.

i'm new at this, but

thanks

for the info.

okay, so what's your

first wish.

money, a car, a house.

how about we go

for a cup of coffee

and talk about it, i tell

her.

by the way,

nice pants.

the alive years are hardest

at last i finish

the thousand page biography

on miss

Plath.

good lord

what a life she had.

short as it

was.

everything she desired

out of writing

came after

her death. her ambitions

at last fulfilled.

so true for most artists.

the alive years

being

the hardest.

the Farrah Fawcett hair

i'll never

cut my hair, she told me once,

heading off

to the beauty 

parlor

at the age of sixty-three.

it's always going to be this

color

and down to my

shoulders

until the day i die.

even when i'm ninety

five

and in a wheel

chair.

my hair will be exactly

the same.

the Farra Fawcett

look

from the seventies.

it's me

my style.

that and my red bathing

suit.

the cold tub water

it's easy

to slip down that little

rabbit hole

of a phone.

suddenly you're interested

in things

that have never

crossed your mind.

who knew that a squirrel

could do that?

or which 

President was the biggest

in terms

of pant size.

before you know it

and hour is gone.

then two,

then three

and

the tub water has gone

cold.

one day and out

when young,

we used to look for jobs

in the newspapers.

remember them?

we'd turn to the classified

section and with

an ink pen

circle the possibilities.

each requiring absolutely

no skills

or higher education.

sales jobs.

construction jobs.

landscaping,

janitorial jobs.

driving an ice cream

truck.

picking apples

in a field.

we took a lot of one day

jobs back then, happy

for the cash.

sound tracks

what do i do with all

this music

that i've collected since

the age of 15.

records,

still in their sleeves,

tapes,

cd's. alums and 45's

all of them in boxes

or scattered about

in drawers

and glove

compartments.

the sound track of my life.

i have six ways to listen

to each of them

now

with a click of my phone.

there's not much that i

hold dear

to my heart,

but all of these songs

i can't let go.

just letting off a little steam

it's okay

to curse now.

which is good.

people can let off a little

steam.

mothers

and fathers,

kids even.

all of them using the s word,

the f word

and the longer

m f word.

no longer is it drunk

sailors

or motorcycle gangs.

car salesmen,

or circus

people blaspheming God.

i heard the priest at

high mass

the other day

let out with a g d

when his

robe caught on fire

by an inept

altar boy.

why don't they try to score?

when my

son was ten he played soccer.

i've seen

every soccer field

in the hundred

mile radius

of where we lived.

mysteriously most of

the games were

at six in the morning.

rain or sleet,

or hail.

it didn't matter, game

on.

two games a week

for nine months.

the season never ended.

at some point

they went indoors.

i shivered on the sidelines

and tried

to cheer, but

had no idea what was

going on.

no one seemed to care

if they won

or lost,

just some maniacal coach

or two.

in the end

the players were just

happy to go home

after pizza

at the local shop, no

mention of the game.

here kitty kitty

i give

a little bit of what she cooked

to the cat,

her cat.

things have not

been going

well and i suspect she may

be tampering

with the food.

that box of arsenic

beneath the sink,

a clue.

the cat

lives, so i dig in,

telling her how wonderful

it is,

her stew.

the high road less taken

the low road

is easier. the high road

being so moral,

so virtuous,

out of the mud

and debris

that lies below.

why is that?

what makes us decide

to take

the low road,

our quiver full of slings

and arrows.

ordinary madness

there is true

madness, wild eyed and 

hallucinatory.

having conversations

with the dead,

or the living

who aren't there.

and then there's

ordinary madness,

an umbrella that we

all fall under,

even in good weather,

living our lives in

a mindless sort of way.

the peach

this peach

is you.

believe me, i know

my fruits,

tropical

or domestic.

the fuzz of it, the soft

skin,

the fragility

of its life

span.

the sweetness

of juice.

i know what to do with

you.

bite down,

and soon.

longing for dark clouds

i'm determined to write

a serious poem.

pondering life and death.

love and sin.

abandonment 

and neglect.

rain driven emotions.

so i dig into

my favorite poets

searching for inspiration.

Plath and Sexton,

Robert Lowell

and Bishop, Strand

and Roethke. 

some strange dark stuff

in all of them.

but i've nothing right now.

maybe tomorrow,

i'll return to being

an emotional wreck

and dip my pen into

an inkwell

of despair.

are you happy now?

that bee.

busy around my ear,

reminds

me of

you.

i swat at it, but

to no avail.

it keeps

coming back,

around

and around it goes.

it's very agile

and fast.

i don't want to kill

it,

but i don't want

to get stung

either.

talking to it is useless

with our

human and insect

language barrier.

finally i give up

and let it

land on my arm where

it proceeds

to sting me, then flies

off.

i call out to it,

okay,

are you happy now.

come on over and watch the game

my neighbor

likes football.

i like football, but the common

interests sort

of end there.

i see him on Sundays

carrying in

cases of beer

and rotisserie chickens.

his big truck has eight

cylinders and American

flags

are hanging everywhere.

he's very patriotic

and has

an interesting assortment

of tattoos

running up his arms

and around

his neck.

which is all fine.

we say hello in passing,

but that's about it.

but then he asks

me if i'd like to come

over and watch

the game with him.

i cringe, and sigh, and

say geeze, i wish i could,

but my friend

Lula Bell is in treatment

at the hospital

for the next

six months, and i have

to help her out

with needles and stuff.

if i don't go,

she might die.

a nice cool breeze

all day,

i walked around with my zipper

down

on my trousers.

accidentally, of course.

fortunately

i wasn't going commando

today.

it did feel a bit breezy

down there,

but i attributed it

to being in a good mood,

after Betty

came over last night,

and morning coffee.

no one said a thing

the whole day,

or seemed to mind.

working, grocery shopping.

going to church

for confession.

it's a long day, and then

i finally go home,

and at last realize

what that breeze was

all about.

oh my.

on hold with Verizon

i get a lot done when

i'm on hold

with Verizon,

my impossible to reach

cell phone

and cable service.

i've pushed every prompt

and answered every question

with a push

of the numbered keys,

at last i'm in line

and waiting

to talk to a real person.

yesterday i baked a cake,

let it cool,

then iced it.

today i'm taking a pottery

class while

i listen to music.

there are nineteen callers

in front of me.

but no problem.

i do my taxes,

give my dog a bath.

i solve a Rubiks Cube,

and do a few

quadratic equations

that baffled Einstein

back in the day.

tomorrow, if the call

continues i'll be taking online

med school

courses.

by the time i talk to an agent

i'll be a resident

at Belleview.

thank you Verizon.

about so and so

word would

get around by standing in the yard

with cold

feet on the ground

hanging laundry

on the line.

i would watch my mother

with the basket,

a clothes pin her mouth,

her apron pocket 

full of them.

sheets and shirts, pants

and dresses.

all in the wind now.

the neighbors on either side

doing the same.

getting the word out.

using the trap door

don't misunderstand me,

i still like people.

not all people, but some.

i'm just quick to hit

the switch and open

the trap door on those

that lie, and cheat, 

and betray. those

that do me wrong.

the half light of night

she can't sleep.

from side to side she moves.

turning each

pillow over.

what is it dear, i ask.

what's wrong.

she turns on the light.

nothing she says,

getting up in her night gown.

i'm downstairs.

come with me.

so i do. wordless,

we sit in the half

light of night,

drinking milk and

eating cookies.

walk on by

you can't

look at women anymore,

not stare,

but give them an admiring

glance.

it's against the rules,

no longer

can you appreciate

their beauty.

the shape of them,

the curl of their hair,

the gleam in

their eyes, they way

they part

their painted lips,

making you sigh.

the rules have changed,

you have to walk about

and pretend you're blind.

troubled people

if life

exists outside

this galaxy, somewhere

in the universe,

do they look and see

and say,

let's go there, or are

they content and happy

enough

to stay put.

each agreeing,

they're troubled people,

why bother

them, let's not

go there.

Pot Roast Sunday

my mother

was proud of her 

jigsaw puzzles.

taking

all winter to put one together.

sitting at

the dining room

table, gathering

pieces by color.

what was it this time?

The Effiel Tower.

she'd call when it was finished

and say you

have to come over

on Sunday to see it.

i'll make a pot roast.

and when i did,

there it was,

laminated

and hanging on her

sewing room wall.

the next puzzle already

out of the box.

on just bread and wine

those days of less,

were full,

the one room

apartment,

the one

car,

the one phone

on the wall,

singulars in all things

were fine.

how easy sleep came

with less,

on my mind.

less

things to protect

and worry

about.

few regrets, because

the past

was so short.

so easy to be happy

on just

bread

and wine.

nothing has changed

the warm

sand

under your bare feet is

a welcome

home

of sorts.

the lighted end

of the day.

an array of pastel

ribbons,

and

there it is.

the ocean.

it's all there, same

as it's always

been,

beautiful and frightening.

rinse and repeat

we apologize,

but then go out and do the same

damn

things all

over again.

what's wrong with us,

we're not dumb

or bad people,

we just can't help

ourselves.

we can't keep our mouths

shut at times.

we make bad choices,

misbehave

and slander,

steal and lie.

cheat.

then we pray once more for

forgiveness.

the world is running

dangerously low

on Holy water.

only by dying will tell

it's difficult.

this faith thing.

despite all the miracles

you've

seen.

still,

it's hard.

we want to understand

this heaven

and hell.

we want concrete

evidence,

not a song and dance,

smoke

and mirrors, and yet

we know,

as the song goes,

miss Nyro,

that only by dying will tell.

anticipation

so much

of joy is built

around

anticipation.

the longing, the wait.

with time

and distance keeping

us from 

what we want,

desire grows even

stronger

by absence

we can almost taste

what our

mind and body

wants.

and love is no

different

than other appetites.

she's all better now

i get the call

from the mental hospital,

and sigh,

my vacation is over.

the doctor says

your wife is all better now.

she's cured

and somewhat normal.

we cleaned her up,

bandaged her wrists

and gave her

a medicated smile.

she'll be waiting for you

on the front stoop

of the facility

when you arrive.

no need to sign.

but we advise you

to keep her away from

sharp objects for awhile,

not to mention gas ovens,

and make

sure she takes her medicine.

and when you go

to sleep at night,

keep open at least one eye.

what love isn't

is that blood

on your shirt, she

asks, peering around

the corner

as i come

home from work,

and fall

into the big chair.

apparently

the days of the welcome

home kiss, are over.

i untie my boots, sliding

out of them.

just a cut,

i tell her.

i'm okay. i stare at

my hands.

they're still curled

from the tools

i used for nine hours.

my nails re black.

i take off my hat

and wipe

my brow.

i close my eyes and feel

the burn

of a long day.

i could fall asleep right

there in this chair

and not wake up

for days.

and then i hear her voice

in the kitchen,

are you going to wash up

before dinner?

or just sit there?

and you tracked mud

in by the way.

do you mind taking your

boots off on the porch

when you come home?

late for dinner again

i take the long way home,

around

the city, against the flow

of traffic.

i find

the back streets

by the park,

the lake,

the path where lovers

walk hand

in hand.

i go slow taking it all in.

i'm in no rush

to get home to an empty

house.

there is no one 

there to ask me,

where i've been.

there's

not a soul peering

anxiously out

the kitchen window,

hoping i'm not late for

dinner,

once again.

three rooms down, to the left

in black,

of course, we go to the funeral

home

to pay

our respects.

we sit in back, not wanting

to take a final

look at our friend

who lies

twenty rows up

in a very nice looking

casket.

we nod at the other guests,

smiling politely

as we dab at our tears

remembering the good times.

after a while though,

when words are said,

and we don't

recognize anyone

we realize that we're at

the wrong

death.

our friend is three rooms

down the hall,

to the left.

the quiet room

is there a more

thunderous sort of noise

than

silence?

is it not worse than

bombs

falling,

exploding around you,

bullets flying by

your head.

the heavy weight of quiet.

it's a tortuous

sort of death

when nothing is

said.

sleep on it

it's good to sleep

on things.

on major life altering

decisions..

no need to rush.

the solution will come

to you in the morning.

a good sleep has a way

of smoothing

out the sea

that has gone rough,

but not always.

sometimes your first

instinct is right.

abandon ship and swim

for shore.

trust your gut.

the cruise to save the marriage

we took

a cruise once upon a time.

the cruise

to save

the marriage.

a romantic trip

beneath the stars and moon,

drifting along

the blue waters

of the Caribbean.

she wanted a bathtub

in the room,

despite the six pools,

nine hot tubs

and Jacuzzis

and 

the ocean outside our

suite

with a king size

bed

and a veranda.

i gave in and said okay, but

on day two

of the ten day cruise

around

islands i caught her

on the poop deck making

out with

one of the servers,

Juan from Puerto Rico.

i remember

how he gave her an extra

helping

of creme Brule at dinner.

she told me

she was just making new

friends.

i tried to call my lawyer,

but the cell reception

was poor, at best.

just one, please

the pear

knows where it stands

with the other fruit.

green

skinned or brown.

fragile with

a curious short shelf life.

one pear

per year and you're done.

you never see

a bag of pears

next to a bag

of apples or

oranges.

you can't roll one

along

on the belt,

with its odd shape.

you have to carry it

to the clerk

and smile when she

says,

just one?

i can hardly see you

you have

to be careful with your words

these days.

the world

is thin

skinned.

everyone takes

offense at nearly

everything.

everyone is walking on eggshells.

no one

wants to be cancelled.

so when she asks

me if she looks fat

in this dress.

i quickly say no.

in fact, dear,

when you stand sideways

i can hardly

see you.

here, have another slice

of cake.

the gold watch

i was green

when i sat down for interview.

young

and inexperienced.

but my hair

was combed,

and i wore a new suit

with new

shoes.

i put on a fine impression.

what was there to lose?

i envisioned

a thirty-year run

with a gold watch at the end.

accumulating a tidy

sum to retire on.

i could do this job

even though

i had no

clue.

within a few weeks,

they knew that too

and a guard 

escorted me out

of the building.

her three story flat

should we

take the steps,

or wait for the elevator,

she says.

it's a now

question

with no need to ask.

we'll wait,

i tell her,

holding her bags,

and pushing the button.

love can wait.

three floors up

is a monumental

task.

ice berg dead ahead

i can feel

when someone is mad at me,

then miles away.

there's a chill

in the air,

no words needed,

just dead silence.

no telephone

ringing,

no ding for a text.

nothing.

the ice age once more

has set in

and again i have no

idea

what i've said or

done.

wanting an oatmeal cookie

with our

sleeves rolled up, we stand

in line again

for shots.

our vaccines

that will keep us ticking

for another

winter, or more.

pneumonia

shot. 

tetanus,

shingles.

covid of course.

the latest booster for

the flu.

we are human pin cushions

as we

one by one,

shuffle out the door.

just once

i'd like someone to hand

me an oatmeal cookie\

before i leave.

Shangri-La redux

strange

to see you so happy

again.

what's changed?

did the lobotomy

work

this time,

the electro shock treatments?

and here i thought

there was no help

for you,

no pills, no therapy,

no books

to read to bring you

back to life.

glad you're

happy again.

did he finally leave

his wife?

diagnosis pending

before i

leave the house.

i check

the stove, the water,

did i leave it running,

are all the lights

off,

i better run upstairs

to check

the windows

once more.

they're calling for rain.

i lock the back

door, again.

i move

the vase an inch to the left

on the mantle,

then touch

my favorite book

on the table six times,

then turn

around twice

as i back up,

seven steps

to the door.

clean up on aisle six

i understand why

young people don't want to work,

i get it.

the early rise,

the boss, the time clock,

the lowly

pay,

the mundane tasks.

i completely understand,

but so what.

grab that mop

there's a spill on aisle six

a jar

of dill pickles dropped.

two worlds

my friend

Linda, calls me from Italy.

sends

me a picture of her eating

linguini

and drinking

wine

in Florence.

she's placed a flower

in her hair

for effect.

how are you, she asks.

what's new.

i send her a picture of me

at the food

court at the mall

eating a chili dog and drinking

an orange soda.

a bag of clothes

from Target at my feet.

the new fall line

is in, i tell her.

the dirty dishes

i can't leave

the dirty dishes in the sink.

why, she asks,

come on,

let's go upstairs, we'll

do them

together in the morning.

she winks,

and sashays towards

the stairs.

but i tell her no,

and begin

to scrub them in

the hot water

with my rubber gloves

on.

go on up, i tell her.

make yourself comfortable,

this won't take long.

sadly,

she's asleep when i'm done.

the new lamp

the new lamp,

bright white and tall,

porcelain

with a wide shade

and

new bulb

gets all the attention.

the couch

sighs,

the plant in the corner

shakes her

head.

the pictures on the wall

have little to say

anymore.

it's all about the lamp now.

even the rug

is angry.

the misunderstanding

it's just a small

sting

from a wandering bee

protecting

the queen

and her honey.

the welt rises on my

hand.

a small

sore bump of

redness.

it's a misunderstanding

which i'm

quick to forgive

and move on.

the true story of Moses

Moses had a few

friends

that didn't believe him.

non-believers.

they

laughed

as he told the story

of the burning bush

up in the mountain

when God spoke to him.

did He have like a Brooklyn

accent

they asked,

a low voice,

or was it high pitched

and squeaky

like Mickey Mouse or

Joe Pesci?

they doubted the tablets

holding the ten

commandments.

my sister could do that

in her sleep

one of them said,

with a chisel and a hunk

of rock.

and what's with only

ten commandments?

my mother-in-law

has about fifty,

don't talk with your mouth full,

wipe your feet before coming

in after sheep herding,

finish your dinner, people over

in Ephesus are starving.

what is your 
God but a Las Vegas

David Copperfield.

what's next?

water into wine,

raising the dead, making

the blind see,

and the crippled walk.

pfffft.

how about something big,

like parting the Red

Sea?

or making Mt. Sinai disappear.

can he do that too?

and what's with the beard,

you've got soup

and bread crumbs

all over it.

not cool dude, not cool.

out of the closet at last

gathering

all his friends and relatives,

his loved ones

together for a party,

he stands up

in the room

below his beloved

chandelier

to make an announcement.

he taps a spoon to his

crystal wine glass

and proudly says,

i'm coming out of the closet

at last.

which makes everyone

laugh,

as they admire the art

on the wall,

the Italian linen,

the silverware,

the seven-course meal

they just had

while classical music

filled their ears.

oh, really now, please

tell us something

we never

knew, they say in unison,

eliciting a cheer.

how about this bush?

i would carry

my dog

out in a rain storm,

or sleet

and snow going sideways

and set

him under a bush

so that he could relieve

himself.

was that a good bush

to go?

of course not.

i'd carry him to another

bush,

then another,

politely encouraging

him 

at each stop along the way.

finally, with

both of us wet

and frozen,

he'd look up at me

with snow on his nose,

lift a leg

and say, okay.

what's wrong with her?

she confuses

me with her kindness

and generosity,

her

concern for me and others.

who does

that anymore?

what planet is she from?

what century?

making dinner,

and praying before a meal,

rubbing my shoulders

when they're sore.

topping off

my coffee with more.

putting a pillow

under my legs for comfort.

she tells me that it's

you who i love

and adore.

what's wrong with her?

she's wonderful.

visigoths

it must have

been hard to be around

Vikings,

the Visigoths

and other assorted ruffians,

and barbarians.

all that raping

and pillaging,

roughnecks with beards

and massive

helmets on their

heads,

with horns no less.

what a motely crew they

were.

bows and arrows,

swords

and swinging hammers

around.

trouble makers,

instigators.

glad that's over. 

finding the sweet spot

there are sweet

spots

in life,

moments of clarity

where

all is in order,

everything is exactly

the way

you want them to be.

love is true.

there is good health.

you are rested

and curious.

alive.

you want this to go

on forever,

but of course it won't.

the sweet spot

is a delusion

that will pass with time.