she's not a car person

i tell her

that her tires are going flat

and she's missing

a hubcap

or two,

and that

from the look

of the blue

smoke coming out of her

exhaust

she must be burning oil.

and the windshield

is cracked.

there's a strange smell

in the back seat,

dear.

she doesn't seem to notice

any of that.

i'm not a car person,

she tells me.

i just get in and go,

sometimes

i get gas

when the little light

turns yellow on the dash.

oh, and that's

yesterday's tuna salad

in the back.

they're waiting on me

the yard

is full of birds.

black

and red,

wide

wings and narrow,

small sparrows

edging

their way onto the feeder,

or stone

bath by the gate.

they line

the fence

waiting for me

to spill the seed

from

the shed bag.

they know, the word

is out.

why bother with

the woods

and trees

flying north then south,

when they have me.

what not to eat

i watch another 

nutrition video

of what not

to eat.

bread, sugar, sodas,

processed

foods,

margarine.

plant based meat,

alcohol.

anything in a can

or a box,

or wrapped in plastic.

i see everything on there

that i abhor,

everything

except my mother's

split pea soup.

squeezing you in at noon

i check my schedule.

no appointments.

it's a clear slate from dawn

till dusk.

then someone

calls.

i tell them, i'm awful busy.

maybe i can

squeeze you

in at noon.

we could have lunch

then

as long as it isn't too long.

i shuffle some papers

around,

close a drawer, sharpen

a pencil.

please don't be late,

i tell them,

i'm a busy man,

and i get impatient

if i have to wait.

no one prepares you for this

in droves,

like cattle worn and beaten

from the trail

to the slaughter

houses

you see them

in the stores,

at the parks, shopping,

reading,

waiting

for whatever it is 

that's supposed to happen

next.

they gather in small

groups

at coffee houses,

walking the mall,

you see them

in night classes at

the community centers

or

searching for

their golf ball in the woods.

it's not about

money anymore, that game

is over.

it's the hours between

morning and sleep

that are troublesome.

no one

prepares you for

this.

holy ground

they call it holy land,

this sorrow.

a dry place, wide,

without

shade.

the arrows of

vultures circle

in the sky.

the dust is in your

eyes,

caught

in your throat.

there is no water

to quench

your grief,

no words will soothe

the broken

heart.

you have to press on

alone,

further and further,

but you'll wake up

one morning

and know

that the dark birds

have flown.

becoming him

i stare

at the back of his hands,

the roughage

of time

and weather,

soon

mine.

his face and hair,

the way

he curls himself

when

sitting, how

he straightens

his back

to walk.

i see what tomorrow

will bring.

the blue eyes

losing shine,

i hear his voice in mine

now

when we

talk.

Catholic Girls

in our early twenties,

we'd stand in the snowy cold,

outside of a club

called Winstons

on M Street, in Georgetown,

waiting for the bus

to arrive from

Marymount,

dropping off a new

class of girls in

their plaids and capes,

their ribbons and bows.

we'd point and make

our dibs on which one we

we wanted to meet or

dance with.

there was some negotiating

when twins appeared.

coins were flipped or

rock paper scissors decided

things before we came

to blows.

we knew we had to make

fast work of it, the pale blue

bus would be back at midnight

to take them back

to school. but in the end

we found that Catholic

girls, despite a few bites

on the neck, start way too late,

the song was definitely true.

the nightstand tells all

it's easy

to determine what decade of life

one is in

by just taking

a look at their nightstand.

when young,

there's a book.

a clock,

perhaps a phone, but as years

go by

room is made for a glass

of water,

pills, and an extra light

for reading,

perhaps teeth are in jar,

there's the sleeping

mask,

the Ben-gay rub,

the ear plugs,

the heating pad plugged

into the wall.

a box of tissues,

of course and

a pair of glasses on a stack

of books

and magazines,

a crossword puzzle

and a pencil chewed

upon, and maybe

a half eaten

scone

from morning.

now waiting for dawn.

Ingrid from Ireland

my friend

Ingrid,

from Ireland, talks fast.

too fast.

her green eyes flashing

in the pub light.

her hair

aglow,

her skin snow white.

whether one beer or two

down hatch,

it doesn't matter.

i can't understand a word

she says,

though she says it well

whatever it is.

it's lyrical.

poetic in a musical way.

she's Dylan Thomas on

a binge.

i let her roll and roll,

and roll,

not stopping her, i just

nod and drink

my drink. encouraging

her with a grin.

dear God help me open this ketchup bottle

i'm at war

with plastic bottles,

getting them open, for one thing,

is difficult,

with wrench in hand,

pliers twisting

with herculean might,

then tapping

out the last

few ounces on the counter

of whatever is stuck inside

adds to 

the trouble.

ketchup,

ranch dressing.

cream in a box.

so much stuck on the inside

no matter how hard

one taps

on the bottom,

twists and turns,

and curses, trying to coerce

out the final

dollops.

looking under her bed

i shouldn't, but i do,

i'm inquisitive

and nosy,

so i take a look under

her bed,

i pull a drawer open,

i investigate

the medicine cabinet,

reading labels

on the pill bottles,

i check out

the closets,

full of clothes and boxes

stacked,

then out to the yard,

where i pry open

the door to the shed.

i find nothing of interest.

no hidden gems,

just rusted rakes and trowels,

cob webs.

it disappoints me in

a strange way.

i'm not used to someone

without secrets,

hiding a past.

tomorrow i'll check again.

finding our bench

we walk

until our feet hurt, until

we sweat

in the cool autumn air.

we lean

back onto the benches

marked

with who once

sat there.

Marvin and Joe,

Betsy,

and Elise.

i suppose they did the same

as we do.

taking in the view,

observing

others,

hand in hand,

around

the lake, through the ramble,

then back.

perhaps,

one day the city will

mark

a bench for us as well.

i suppose it wouldn't

hurt to ask.

let's play a game

i miss

the old childhood games.

the board

games,

Life

and Monopoly.

Boggle.

training wheels for children

as we grew out

of our clothes.

it was before

Grand Theft Auto,

and Simms,

etc.

the sexualized games

of the now.

the most explicit

we got

was spin the bottle, or

post office.

a kiss on the lips was

what it was

all about.

strip poker was further

down the road.

writing under a pseudonym

we wish

we were taller, or lighter

on our feet,

more handsome

or pretty.

we wish for more than

what we have.

more money.

a bigger house,

a faster car,

better parents

better in-laws.

a tad more

fortune and 

a spoonful of fame

perhaps

more courage, more brains,

more of everything.

are we ever truly content

and happy?

doubtful.

sometimes we even

want to change our name.

don't pull my thread

be kind

tonight

and don't pull the thread

on me.

let it lie,

or snip it clean,

tuck it under, or

between

the others knitted

tight.

don't unravel me,

let's not argue,

or quarrel, or disagree

let's leave our

differences alone

tonight.

how to make a ham sandwich

it's an art of some sort.

the making

of the ham

sandwich.

i spent hours and hours

teaching

my son how to make one

when he was five

and his mother

was out shopping at Norstrom's

for their bi-annual shoe

sale.

i explained to him

how to set all the necessary

ingredients out

on the counter.

the cutting board,

the plate, the sharp knife.

i'd tell him

to close his eyes and visualize

what the sandwich

would look like.

tomatoes and onions

sliced.

the toasted bread, 

preferably a seeded rye,

and the condiment

of choice

that he liked.

i showed him how to fold

the ham and place it on

the bread gently, followed

by cheese, provolone or Swiss

would be nice, then

the lettuce, etc.

finally, but importantly,

i demonstrated how to press

it all down, but

not too hard so that you break

the top piece of bread,

and then the all important

sandwich slice,

not diagonal, of course,

don't be a fool, but straight

across, to make

it easier to bite.

dill pickle on the side.

reaching over to the cold space

in the middle 

of the night i'm

shivering.

my teeth chatter.

i may be dying of frostbite.

i can't feel

my feet.

i reach over for the dog

to warm me,

or for one of

three wives,

or Betty,

but it's an empty cold

space.

i think about the comforter

in the closet,

down the hall.

the big white cloud

of goose feathers.

the choices are to continue

shivering,

or to get up and go get it.

if only i had a coin

to flip to help me decide.

goodbye and good luck

good luck, we say

in passing, in leaving.

never

when we enter the room

and shake a hand,

do we

say, good luck.

why not?

only when we wave

goodbye

do we offer

the phrase, good luck

to you

and your loved ones.

should luck only be applied

when we're not

around.

are we a rabbit's foot

of some

sort

to hold onto once

we depart, once we say

goodbye?

the other side of the tracks

i can't fall asleep

on the train.

i'm too busy looking out the window.

i wish the train

would slow

down, in fact.

give me enough time to take

notes

as i observe what lies

beyond these

steel tracks.

there's another world,

another way

of living, or dying around

each bend,

out each tunnel

of darkness we descend into

and come out

the other side.

sorry, but we already filled that quota

let's not choose, the best

and the brightest

anymore,

don't select

the most intelligent

or worthy

at their

chosen occupations.

the most skilled.

no. instead

let's hire by color and race,

by creed, by

the height or weight.

or hairstyle

of the applicants.

are they left or right handed?

we have quotas now

to go by.

good luck when you fly across

those not so friendly

skies.

riding the rollecrcoaster

we used to kiss and makeup,

break up

fight,

say hateful things

to each other,

then apologize,

and

do it all over again.

it was exhausting, but fun

too.

the epitome of a rollercoaster

relationship.

the other day

i ran into the guy

she's dating now,

he looks like

hell,

beaten and lost. disheveled.

sort of like how i used

to look too.

ending the chicken strike

i go out

into the back yard 

to see how the chickens

are doing

and to collect

a few eggs for breakfast.

i see them

all in line,

marching together,

back and forth

holding up signs

demanding that they

become free range chickens.

they're on strike it appears.

no more eggs

until they have more space

to walk around

and pluck insects

off the ground.

i try to reason with them.

this is a townhouse,

it's a small yard,

there are condo restrictions.

but they'll have none

of it.

there's a lot of clucking

and scratching 

at the dirt,

pecking my feet with their

beaks.

their little beady eyes are

bugging out of their heads

from holding back

on the eggs.

i go back in

and look up a few recipes

online for roasted

chickens,

and chicken pot pies.

the painting estimate

take your shoes

off when

you come in the door,

the woman

tells me,

yelling down from

the kitchen

with her hazmat

suit on.

okay, i yell back.

so i sit on the step and

slip out of my shoes.

what about my

pants,

i yell up the stairs,

on or off?

this makes her call

the police.

i guess

i won't be getting

that job.

no longer factory parts

new knees,

new

hips,

new shoulder, a nip

and tuck

here and there,

a reduction,

an enlargement,

each part

under construction,

under repair.

even the heart is switched

out.

who still has their

factory

parts when being towed

to the cemetery,

few, it seems,

few retain the original

upholstery

installed at the start.

the YMCA steam bath

my wife

tells me that we need more friends

to invite to the party.

friends

of color, she says,

you know.

brown, black, Hispanic

Asian.

maybe find a transgender

or two.

all our friends

are white,

pale, and pasty.

and most of them are straight,

without piercings

or tattoos.

we need to diversify.

don't you play basketball

with some

of these kinds

of people?

i tell her yes, but, wouldn't

it be a little

strange to do this?

i would like you to meet some

gay people too, she tells me.

would you mind

going to the YMCA next week

to use the steam bath?

and then

to the parade for the gender

confused.

no, i'm not doing that.

what's wrong with you?

are you out of your mind?

calm down, she says, calm down.

i just think that we need to fit

into the world

better, i don't want us to

appear

unwoke. you know?

people are starting to talk

about us.

the 1965 Tupperware Party

my mother, in order

to have

a few more

bucks to raise her seven children

would throw

Tupperware

parties.

we'd watch from the top

of the stairs, taking

it all in.

she'd make tea and small

sandwiches,

cookies to start it off.

before long

the house was

full

of women from the neighborhood

looking for a small

plastic

container

with a red top

to store away their leftovers.

midway

in the party, my mother

would start

making cocktails.

Manhattans

and martinis, and would

put some music

on the stereo.

Sinatra and Dean Martin,

Bobby Darin.

Chubby Checker doing

the twist.

everyone lit up a cigarette

and

dancing ensued.

she sold everything

by the end of the day.

once more, by the skin

of our teeth,

the electric bill got paid.

not everyone old is wise

not everyone

old

is wise.

you don't have to look

far

or listen too hard

to know that.

turn on the television

and watch

the news,

watch

the politicians debate.

read the paper,

for some,

a long life lived

is full

of mistake after mistake.

thirty years later

i'm

matronly now,

she tells me,

over the phone.

too much wine

and pastries.

i've let myself go.

people mistake me for

Angela Lansbury now,

asking for

my autograph.

the actress at the end,

not the beginning.

will you still love me

like you used to?

love me when we meet

again?

or are you shallow

as ever?

no need to respond.

i laugh.

not to worry my dear.

let's meet, i tell her.

i look like Lou Asner now

from the Mary Tyler Moore

show.

so tell me,

how about i pick you up

at six

for an early dinner?

i don't believe in broccoli

i don't believe in broccoli,

or the news,

or the statistics

on global

warming

or cholesterol,

or anything spewed

by talking

heads

and influencers.

i don't believe

the doctors, the lawyer,

the teacher,

the actors and writers,

or the investment

guru.

i don't believe in fish,

or red

meat,

or voodoo.

i don't believe in

science, or math,

or any religion

that begs for money,

or school. i don't believe

half of what

the world preaches,

and lately

i'm having my doubts

about you.

clam chowder

this is good soup,

she says,

sipping her clam chowder

in the dim

light of the cafe.

it is i tell her, blowing

on my spoon.

spilling crackers

into the mix

of potatoes and clams,

all white.

is there more to talk about?

perhaps,

but not right now.

not tonight.

the headache poems

i struggle

with most poetry. 

with what any of it means.

the reference

to Greek mythology,

or ancient Rome,

or some species

of flower

i've never known.

i don't understand the long

words,

the strange metaphors

and similes.

it's a puzzle written

by very smart

writers,

no doubt. Ivy League.

but i have no clue as

to what

it's all about.

please tell me what

any of it means.

just ten quick hits of dopamine

i promise

my brain only ten quick

hits of

tik tok

dopamine

this morning, before coffee

and then

off to work.

but i go down

the proverbial rabbit hole,

deep into

the strange world

that we live in.

i had no idea that a person

could put

an ankle behind

their head

while jumping on

a trampoline,

or that there are ten million

pieces of space

junk floating

around the earth.

i stop at the monkey video,

the one

where he's playing

Beethoven's 5th symphony

on the piano.

it's cold out

when you

hear the words, i don't

want

any more chaos,

or drama in

my life,

you know there's a story

waiting to be

told.

but do you ask,

do you press them on

the past,

to spill

their tale of woe,

or do you smile and say,

that's nice

then button your coat

up to your chin,

because it's cold?

the napkin in his coat pocket

when he died, we went

through

his pockets,

his pants, his coat,

his shirt.

we found lists

and notes.

reminders of some sort,

to change the furnace

filter or

to change

the oil

in his car.

coins and bills.

a nail clipper and a comb.

breath mints.

there were

grocery lists.

milk and bread, the rest.

and then we

found this.

a napkin folded

neatly over

with the imprint of

a lipstick kiss.

red.

no number, no name.

but fresh.

don't wake up, just yet

it's a strange

dream,

a Salvadore Dali

kind of collage of many

disconnected

things.

babies

and empty rooms.

nude women,

and water.

there's a white vase.

a black

as oil crow.

red curtains and lace.

there's the eye

of the moon,

a yellow strand of hair.

there's no

rhyme

or reason for any of it

that i can

think of,

but i loved being there.

i wanted more,

i wanted to see what

came next.

some new hipster music

with each

tearing of the calendar sheet,

i feel

more and more

out of touch

with what's new.

the hipster music,

the hipster talk,

the new thoughts on

most things.

am i stuck in my youth,

my middle age,

my whatever it is now

i'm treading in?

perhaps.

but put a quarter in the juke

box,

and let's see what

comes out.

will it make my foot tap,

my head

nod,

my mouth shout?

diamond in the rough

what's the difference?

a shard

of glass glimmering

in the gutter,

giving

off a brilliant ray

of light,

or that twenty thousand

dollar diamond

behind

the counter at the jewelry

store?

they look the same

to me.

but i know which you

prefer.

and that's why it'll never

work between

us.

catching a large white fish

i remember

when

she pulled up her

cotton

shirt,

and grabbed the flabby

tire around

her stomach,

a white fish

caught between two

hands.

look at me, she said.

how did this happen?

she was incredulous.

i tell her wine,

Oreos,

Ledo pizza

and potato chips mostly,

and the peanut

butter and banana

sandwich you

eat before bed.

in the trenches

i give

her the story of my scar

that runs

along

my forehead.

a clean deep

wound, long healed, but

there it is

in the light.

i tell her it's from when

i was at war,

and she asks,

which one.

i tell her three wars each

no better than

the other,

a battle in

the trenches,

thinking it was love.

but in the end,

i survived,

i did win.

i'm too blame

i know

that i'm to blame, not

for your

unhappiness, but for mine,

it's all my fault

hanging

too long,

to someone,

strange, someone

adrift in

a permanent fog.

they are my kind

is there

a more beautiful

sight

than a man or woman

working?

hands in the mud,

knuckles bent around

wrenches

and pipes,

feet off the ground,

sweat

and tears, blood and grit,

going at it

day in 

day out to earn their

crust of bread.

they don't stand on

the street corner

begging,

or wait in line for 

the government dole,

the left-handed handout.

there is no daddy or mommy

to lean on

as they grow old.

they wash

and clean, dig and carry.

climb.

they wake up early

and come home late,

they make

the world go round.

they are my

kind.

disco fever

moving

my seven pairs of loafers 

and sketchers

out of the way

in my closet,

i come across my old dancing

shoes

from back in the day,

when i used to go

up to NYC 

to party at Studio 54.

i had a bad case of disco

fever back then.

the shoes still have

goo stuck to the bottom

of the soles.

like amber on a tree trunk.

spilled drinks,

and sweat and blood

and god knows

what else.

there's a spray

of sparkle on them too.

those were the days,

Liza, and Michael,

Andy

and Calvin.

Truman,

Mick and Bianca.

i should have them tested

for DNA,

then sent to the Smithsonian

to be put

on display.

going winter crazy

i yell down

to my imaginary Butler,

Wilson,

to fix me a cup of coffee

and to

whip up two eggs

over easy

before i hit the road.

of course he doesn't answer,

because

well,

because he doesn't exist.

i tell him

to bring up the paper,

then walk

the dog.

i tell him the grocery

list is on the fridge

for when he goes to the market,

and to pick up my kids

at school at three,

who also don't exist.

and please go easy on

the collars

with the starch, i tell him.

they're a little

too stiff.

isn't it Ironic

it's too cold

out

to protest, i tell her.

can't we

wait until the spring?

i think i got

frostbite

the last time we

blocked the 409.

look at my hands,

my fingers

are still blue.

she looks

at me with her bandana

wrapped around

her head

and face,

holding the sign she just

made.

don't be a sissy, she says.

but, i tell her,

shouldn't we be protesting

global warming

when it's hot

out?

they're calling for nine

inches of snow,

by this afternoon.

it seems ironic, doesn't it?

get dressed she says,

here's your

mittens, miss Alanis

Morisette.

where's the bathroom?

by accident

i took a bite of a plant based

hamburger.

i chipped

a tooth

on the hard cardboard

concoction

formed from

the shredded likes

of kale

and barley, legumes

and dirt.

it looked like a burger

from Five Guys,

the same

shape,

the same color, but 

no matter how much

ketchup

i put on it, or lettuce,

or onions, or a slice

of tomato,

and no matter how

sugary sweet the bun

was that held

it all together,

it sent me running 

down the hall

for the bathroom.

a man's last dying words

i read somewhere

that the most heard phrase,

when someone

is about to die,

lying in bed, with the lights

going dim

and dimmer,

loved ones at their side.

with decades of living

behind them,

and i'm paraphrasing here,

but the phrase 

on the lips of most

dying people is,

what the hell was that

all about?

sleepy joe and the orange man

so it looks like

ole sleepy joe, and the orange

man

are going to duke

it out

in November.

two old white guys

nearing 80.

shouldn't they

be playing

pickleball

somewhere, or playing cards,

or fishing,

or playing golf

in their Jimmy Buffet

shirts

and white shoes?

why aren't

they at the beach,

lying in the sun,

life done,

drinking prune juice?

getting into Costco is hard

it's easier

to get in across the border

down south,

through

rivers and streams,

deserts

and barbed wire,

banditos

around every cacti,

dogs and guards, than it

is getting into

Costco without

a membership card

and a valid Id.

despite all efforts,

they won't let you in

until you sign up

and pay a yearly fee.

a postcard from New York City

we can't afford

a trip

to New York, or Chicago.

with the exorbitant

prices of hotel

rooms being what they

are, so we brush up on

our Spanish and hop on

board a bus of migrants

coming from

Texas and afar.

a free ride.

in nine hours or so,

we'll be staying at

the Roosevelt hotel,

with room service,

a fine establishment

in the heart of the city,

famous for its ambiance,

and Guy Lombardo

ringing in the new year,

once getting four stars.

and the beauty of it is.

is that there's absolutely

no charge.

thank you, Joe.

we'll send along a postcard.

what are men telling us with their facial hair

what message

is the beard

telling us? the mustache,

or mutton chops.

what about

the goatee, or the Amish

look

with hair

everywhere but above

the lips.

what are the sideburns

and the handlebar,

all about?

the thin

stache,

that magicians wear.

Salvidor Dali

with his little curly cue,

at the end.

what are men

trying to tell us with

their facial

hair?

the doorman knows us

the doorman

know us by name.

he's tall

and robed in regal splendor,

gold buttons

and gold brocade

trim.

a hat no less,

that of a prince.

he knows when we come home,

when we

leave again.

he knows our dog,

our friends,

our late hours.

he knows

our mistakes and misgivings,

he smiles

as he pulls open

the door at 3 am,

he knows our 

our stumbles,

letting

strangers in,

but mum's the word

because

Christmas is just around

the bend.

i don't know what to do with myself

i don't know

what to eat anymore,

or drink or read, or where

to go

on vacation, or what to do with

my life,

or how to heal

myself from

heartbreak, or strife,

i have no mind of my own,

no clear

path towards happiness.

so i go on YouTube,

of course.

Tik Tok.

it used to be just Oprah,

as my guiding

light,

but now there's hundreds

of influencers

to follow

and make my life

right.

I click, click, click

and swipe.

Monday through Sunday

her pill box.

a plastic container

with hinged

lids,

marked

Monday through Sunday.

is filled

with a variety of pills

of all color,

shapes and sizes.

each

keeping her fit and trim,

and right

of mind,

i suppose.

at eight a.m.,

i see her at the edge

of the bed

with a glass of water

and down

they go.

finding your groove

i see

that in retirement, the old

men,

find a routine.

my neighbor has one,

my father,

my uncle.

early to rise then out

the door

to warm up the car

and drive.

the paper,

then coffee, the donut

shop

where they know his name.

the gym

to flirt with the new

girl

and gossip with friends.

they drive

by the shipyards,

the factories,

the office buildings,

they take the long away

around,

maybe through the park,

then back home

again.

almost time for lunch

then a nap

on the couch with the cat,

and the dog

curled at the end.

already decided

there is

no use in talking politics.

the feet

of most

are planted firmly in cement.

dried

and hardened

with time

and misinformation.

there is no changing

of opinions,

despite facts,

or reason

applied.

it's love or hate, black

or white.

the lever has been pushed

even before

the November

night.

her damp skirt

he signed

her copy of his book of poems

after

she sipped

too much wine

and spilled it on her dress.

she listened on

as trickles of red, like blood,

rolled down

her leg.

she loved

his words,

his rhyme or lack thereof,

the stories

that he told with each

clean sweep

of words.

how he

read each

beautiful line.

good luck he wrote

on the inside page,

best of luck with

your damp skirt,

and future

glasses of wine.

Philip Levine.

a circle of friends

i remember

watching the boy,

a teenage boy,

an honor society boy,

an athlete,

wrapping a rubber

tube around

his arm,

and then sticking a needle

full of heroin

into a fattened

vein.

the six or seven us,

all friends,

were in the darkened

basement,

lit up only by a black light

over the poster

of Jimi Hendrix. 

we were

listening to music,

eating, laughing, drinking.

the boy nodded off,

falling backwards

onto pillows,

with a smile on his pale

white face.

no longer were we kids

on the playground,

or helping each

with homework,

or spending the night

watching tv,

or calling girls on the phone.

this was different.

this was childhood

ending.

my neigbor Albert Einstein

i used to live next

door

to Albert Einstein,

the physicist,

he was always knocking on the door

asking me

if knew anything

about

synching his phone

with his Bose

speakers.

together we'd work for hours,

sitting on the floor,

but with no luck.

then he asked me

to show him how to fold

a fitted a sheet.

i stared at his laundry

basket, shaking my head sadly,

and said, nope, good luck with that.

but i was able to help him

log onto

Netflix, so at least we 

accomplished that task.

before i left i asked him

what that blue

bubbling

test tube on his kitchen

counter was all about,

and the beaker spewing

gaseous fumes,

he laughed,

and scratched his head,

then said.

oh, you don't want to

know about that.

more work to be done

does therapy

actually help

the mentally ill,

or unstable,

the unhappy, the confused?

not really.

but maybe it gives one

a moment

of reflection,

though it's no less 

or no more helpful

than trying

to change your body

by staring into a mirror.

the peace negotiations

i try

to patch things up between

the two old

friends,

who have become estranged,

arguing

for years,

or not speaking

over meaningless

childish things.

it's Egypt and Israel,

all over again.

the Hatfield's and McCoy's.

the Capulets and Montagues.

Donald and Hillary.

they have

a small truce.

a fragile start,

but we shall see, the egos

are too large

for it to last long.

peace is rarely forever,

if you follow

history.

what meant most to him

near the end 

of his life,

my father gave

me

the shovel he used

on a farm

in Nova Scotia,

circ1933.

the rake,

the trowel.

he gave me the leather

reins

that he used

for his horse. the bucket

that he

carried seed in,

or to milk

the cow.

i told him thank you.

thank you.

but didn't tell him

that it felt

too late now.

i just need a little bump

whether

drug

or drink, sugar

or salt,

we all have our weaknesses.

for some

it's sleep,

or love,

or something close

to love,

perhaps

like or lust.

we need a bump,

a jolt whether

from

caffeine,

or smoke,

a dollop of dopamine,

something to get us

through the day.

something

to give us

a small serving

of hope.

she was about to sell us to gypsies

i sincerely

believed that my mother

or father

was going to sell us to gypsies,

black robed

and moaning,

when we

lived in Castle del fel.

they wanted

something,

money food, maybe another

child to tend

to their flock

of whatever animals

were in the back of their

horse pulled wagons.

the woman stood

up

with her naked brown

baby

and said something in her

language.

more like a song

than a plea

for mercy.

my mother gave them bread,

and wine,

and whatever else

she could find to fend

of the curses they might put on us.

we hid under bed

until we heard the hooves

marching onward

with the crack of a whip.

only three more hours

i know

i should be more patient,

but i'm not.

i set the timer

on the oven,

and peak into the pot

of stew.

only four more

hours to go.

i pace the room, looking

at my watch.

should i add more

carrots,

more salt?

should i turn the oven

up?

should i make a peanut

butter

sandwich

to hold the cravings off.

or just suffer,

and wait it out?

how old and how did he die

what you really want to 

know,

is how old was he,

and how

did he die?

the rest of the obituary

is filler.

sure he was a great

guy.

a father, a husband,

etc. etc.

he worked at his profession

up until the end.

but how old

was he,

and how did he meet

his demise.

please tell me he was a lot

older than me

and just never

woke up one morning.

maybe tell me that in

the first

few lines.

the other worlds

tired of looking

out

into the sky, at nothing

but far

away planets and stars,

lifeless

for the most part,

i buy

a microscope

and start looking into that

instead.

gazing

at the little

glass plates smeared

with blood

and platelets.

wings of bugs,

and germs.

bits and pieces of the living

and dead.

it's a crazy world

of minutiae

going on, much

more interesting than

the rest of

the universe.

you take the last one dear

i told her

to go ahead, you can have

the last

oyster on the plate.

so she

shook out another

dollop

of hot sauce,

then down the hatch

it went.

i visited her

in the hospital the next

day.

you take the last one,

the next time,

she said with

an IV in her arm,

okay?

one eye looking down

the paper

gives you a face, a time

and place

of death.

a bullet wound

to the chest.

no witnesses,

no one

around to confess.

a robbery?

maybe.

a grudge now settled?

who's to know

these things.

at three a.m.

in the morning.

the silver moon above,

with one

eye looking

down.

wild children in the street

are there really

horses stampeding out

in the street.

what is that noise,

as school

bells ring

at the end of another year,

gone.

wild horses? no, not quite.

why it's children,

half grown,

they keep making them,

i suppose.

more yet to be born.

going backward into time

it doesn't work

that way.

there is no turning back

the clock,

or calendar

page

to savor what was

right, or fix

what went wrong.

there is no time machine,

no magic

wand,

or spell to take you

backwards

to another day,

now gone.

prayer won't help either.

but occasionally

you can get there

while listening to

the sweet sound 

of a well worn song.

what's the point of anything anymore

i find my friend jimmy

sitting on my front porch when

i go out to get the newspaper.

it's early in the morning.

hey, i say to him.

what's up, what are you doing here?

he's already read the paper

and is sitting on it because

the porch is wet from last nights rain.

did you break up with Lulu Belle

again.

yeah, i did, but that's not all of it,

he says. i'm really depressed.

well, if not her, then what?

it's everything, he says.

what are we doing with our lives?

i was watching a science show

last night, and they said that

eventually the sun is going

to burn out and the earth

will die because of that.

the earth can't live without the sun,

did you know that?

so what's the point of anything,

he says. everything we hold dear,

the Kardashians, 

Oprah, Dr. Phil and Snoop Dog,

wrestling and pickleball,

television,

YouTube and tik Tok, it'll all

be gone. poof, all our hard work

gone just like that.

i just weeded my yard the other

day and washed my car,

and for what?  not to mention that 

i just renewed my subscription

to People magazine. 

i've been on a Keto diet,

starving myself all year, killing

myself,

and why. what's the point?

i spend half the day separating

plastic, paper and glass

for the trash man.

i even stopped drinking

and smoking.

every morning i do some push ups

and sit ups

and take a walk. but for what?

but, i tell him.

the sun will be around for another

billion years or more, so

we'll be long gone by then.

we have a lot of time left, jimmy.

hmmm. he says. yeah, that's true.

hey, are you making coffee?

i could use a cup.

and maybe i should call Lulu back up,

and patch things up with her,

since we still have time.

my new AI scale

i bought

a new fangled scale to measure

my weight

as i get in shape

for the beach season.

it's the latest in

AI

innovation. it talks to me

when i step aboard.

it jokes,

saying things like, please,

one person

at a time.

or have you no self

control

with cake and pie?

less lettuce and more meat,

it'll say

when i'm too thin.

or stand up straight,

and take your shoes off,

and take

those rocks out

of your pocket.

i'm working here.

get on naked, it's okay,

i won't laugh, or

you may need a little more

fiber in your diet.

lay off the wine,

your shaking me inside.

he was a quiet man, they said

after

the yellow tape goes up,

and 

the murder scene is photographed

and investigated,

they begin

to ask the neighbors

what kind of a man

was he,

the suspect.

and as one, they all agree

that

he was a quiet man,

a man who minded

his own business,

he always said hello

in passing, he even

walked

my dog once, one said.

so

we're very surprised that

he took

this action.

global freezing protest march

the winter months

have a way

of telling people to shut up

and go

home.

get off the streets

with your global warming

protests

and parades.

the wind and ice,

blizzard conditions seems

to take the steam

out of them

and off they go to a bowl

of porridge,

and a fire to rub

their hands against.

at four below, it makes

sense

to stay home.

two hundred and twenty three record albums

i stare

at my aging collection of vinyl

LP's.

all of them

stacked together

in the cellar in bins.

originals

from the sixties, seventies

until

8 tracks came

into being.

then cd's,

then Spotify and amazon,

and whatever

else there is out there that

pleases me.

i have Like a Rolling Stone,

and most of Dylan,

in nine different

forms

of music.

but Barbra Streisand,

or Joan Baez,

none.

it has a mind of its own, sorry

we often

have to adjust this particular

appendage

that we are quite

fond of,

protective of.

it needs to be jostled at

times,

rearranged into a better

position, especially

when hopping on a bike.

athletes in particular

have to do this

all time.

having a mind of its own,

the beach can be a problem

during bikini season,

or if the ocean

is cold.

you never quite know

what it's

thinking,

or what mood it's in.

it can surprise you or disappoint

you, depends

on who you're kissing,

or missing.

excessive drinking, or worry

can do it in.

but like the sun,

in the morning, it will often,

miraculously,

rise again.

i should water that plant one day

being men,

especially when single,

we are never quite completely

house trained.

sure we track in

mud,

grass,

whatever we step into

from the outside

world.

the seat is always left up.

and sometimes

we forget to flush.

the bread lies

untied on the counter,

the butter out,

the doors unlocked.

bills

on the floor, fallen

from the door slot,

are stepped upon,

pushed to a corner.

we can live in complete

clutter

and chaos and can wear

for weeks on end,

the same

shirt

and the same socks.

plants don't live long

around us.

remember the sun?

cold

feet, cold hands.

i'm

an ice cube

shivering here in this

vast

wasteland.

white as far as the eye

can see.

i miss the sun.

that yellow ball of light.

a vague

memory.

i should have taken

more pictures

on those summer

days when

it was out.

as i eat a cheeseburger

i see the hunters

in the woods,

orange vests aglow

against

the bare trees

and freshly

fallen snow.

rifles in tow.

what are they after?

what needs

to be killed on this cold

morning?

i look out

from the window.

there's nothing

that deserves death,

i think,

at least nothing

that i know.

don't ruin things for me

i do like the familiar.

the same

coffee,

the same eggs over easy

with hashbrown

and bacon,

the paper on the porch.

i like

the big couch

by the window.

i like my shows,

my books,

i like

this one blanket in

particular

that i curl under when

it's time

for sleep.

i like it when i place my

fingers

on the keyboard,

creating

words on another blank page,

i am a creature

of habit,

of comfort.

don't ruin things for me,

by insisting,

that i leave the house.

who are you now?

did i dream

about you last night?

did i roll over and reach out

for the bones

of you,

the flesh

of you? was that you in

the other room,

unable to sleep?

counting sorrows on

your fingers,

and the toes

of your feet.

who are you now?

which mask are you wearing?

what keeps

you away from me?

who is he?

i'll pray for him too.

it's at our throats again

can this be true,

already,

it's upon us, the forms

and papers,

the documents to be

signed

and sealed,

delivered, by mail

or wire.

tax time is at our throats

again.

did we give enough.

were we charitable,

did we hide

a check or two, or three

under the table?

will they flag me for

writing off

cake and ice cream,

massage parlors,

the Gypsy too?

all work related mind

you.

my calculator is plugged,

my pencils sharpened.

where dear lord

should i begin?

two gift cards from Dollar General

once more, i have won

the lottery.

i have been awarded

seven point two million dollars

and a luxurious

white Mercedes Benz

from the publishers clearinghouse.

the man

has informed me on the phone

with glee

that i am a lucky winner.

i sigh.

i tell him thank you,

and ask him which store

should i go to

to get gift cards to pay

the taxes on my winnings.

he tells me Dollar General,

or Kroger's.

Wal-Mart maybe.

he needs

two four hundred dollar

gift cards

to satisfy the IRS stipulations

on such earnings.

no problem, i tell the man,

who sounds

strangely Jamaican,

despite having the name,

David Martin.

i'm on my way now, i tell him,

walking

through a blizzard, with

my sled dogs.

and rifle to shoot off any

wild wolves

that might try to devour me.

out of season

you can't pick

it too early, or too late,

there is a sweet

spot for

fruit

when it's time to take

a bite.

it can't linger in a wooden

crate

for weeks

on end,

or cross the ocean

in containers,

cardboard boxes and

steel bins,

it isn't right.

though they look fine

beneath the glow

and polish

of earnest hands

and fluorescent

lights.

these apples, these berries

these melons

won't please you,

wait until the season

is right.

it's what men do

i see the men

with their shovels

and salt,

in their new Christmas coats,

high boots,

hats and scarves

secured

around their necks as

they dig out their cars,

shoveling

the walk all the way

down to the street.

it's what men do.

we hunt, we get out

there, no matter

the weather, no matter

if there's a war.

we can't help ourselves.

we need to

get to the market,

the gas stations,

to the post office.

nothing will stop us,

but ourselves.

scotch and cigarettes

a new pint

of old scotch is left on

the stone,

beneath

which

a body lies, long gone.

the birth and death,

and name,

carved clearly.

there's a pack

of lucky strikes

left on the marker,

a box of strike

wooden

matches too.

he was Pharoah of some

sort,

i imagine,

lacking his own

pyramid,

just a cold blanket

of snow,

the low winter

light making it

blue.

no traffic if you go now

standing on the corner,

with my phone

in my pocket, tucked

away,

i talk to my friend

Jimmy,

about

a new set of tires for my

car.

within

minutes,

i'm receiving emails

and texts

from firestone

and goodyear

informing me of radials

on sale.

Jimmy asks me

if there are any good

pizzas parlors around

that we can 

got to for lunch.

i tell him, hold on for

a minute,

then i check my

phone, 

it says try Luigi's

five blocks from where

you're standing.

go south on 5th avenue,

no traffic

if you go now.

and by the way, your

zipper's down.

the house of cards

we all

are a house of cards.

the stack

built high

on luck and ambition,

so easily

tumbled

once the first one

falls to the side.

whether money

or health,

the dark wind

of some misfortune,

we are all

just moments away

from

being hopeless

and homeless,

thrown out

on our ear, scrambling

to stay alive.

spicing things up

i'll never

eat another jalapeno

pepper again,

i say

to myself,

as i swallow four

magnesium

chalk

like pills for indigestion,

trying to

assuage

the heart burn.

why did i cut

them up and throw

them

into the hashbrowns,

the eggs.

always trying to spice

things up.

i knew this was going

to happen,

but i did it anyway.

chapter three

in the story

of my life.

nocturnal beasts

the animals,

come out at night.

their footprints

are in the snow.

nocturnal beasts,

foraging for food.

wolves

and coyotes,

foxes

and raccoons.

look at all their footprints,

from porch to street,

back to the woods.

and then there's

yours,

the imprint of your high

heel shoe,

sneaking around

in the dark,

peering into my window.

so you.

water used to be free

it seemed

silly, back then,

and by back then,

i mean

before the 80's,

the idea of bottled water,

paying for it,

when all you had to do

was turn

the faucet on,

twist the spigot of the garden

hose and out

came

a steam of water, hot,

or cold.

though with the hose,

you had to give

it a few minutes

to wash out that rubbery

vinyl taste.

waking up to butter milk biscuits

there are times lately,

when i wake up

at the crack of dawn,

way too early, but i'm

no longer thinking

about sex, and the flight

attendant, Debbie.

instead i'm

half dreaming and thinking

about buttermilk

biscuits,

piping hot from the oven.

the kind

that melt into your mouth,

little pasty clouds,

with the soft warm

crumbs tumbling

down my chin.

a stack of them

on a plate

with a stick of butter

near by.

i may be nearing

the end.

her plastic snake boots

she had no

television, no land line,

no radio.

she had a flip phone,

from back

in the Fred Flintstone days

and the original

computer

that Radio Shack made.

she had no

chairs,

no sofa, her mattress

was on the floor,

no shades on the windows.

every room

was cluttered with boxes

and clothes,

books and magazines

with Elizabeth Taylor

on the cover.

she used to wear her pink snake

boots when

she went out to the compost

pile in the yard.

she was an interesting woman

who memorized sonnets

from Shakespeare,

seventy miles

away

on the Eastern shore.

i never quite figured out

her love language.

but i don't see her

anymore.

ten dollar bill in the window

i keep waiting for a kid

to knock

on my door

to ask me if i want

my sidewalk

cleared,

my car shoveled out?

but no.

kids don't do that anymore.

over the age of ten

they don't go

out into the snow

like they used to.

i tape a ten

dollar bill in

the window.

trying to tempt them, but

they walk

by and laugh.

i guess it's on me again,

shovel, scrapper, salt,

boots on,

here we go.

a Baskin and Robbins world

we need to know

where we've come from,

it's the new age

of science. the vial

of spit tells all.

are we

the outlier,

the bastard son, who was dad,

really?

or mom.

are they part Indian,

or Italian,

Scandinavian?

is there a smidgen

of Polynesian blood in me?

please tell me i'm not

related to Charles Manson,

or Richard Nixon,

or Zsa Zsa Gabor.

what island

was our blood spilled

on,

where did these blue

eyes

come from.

these long legs, these

red curls?

Adam and Eve must have

been wild

looking people,

to propagate this varied

world.

still loading

we live

in a world of never ending

updates.

the software,

being twisted and turned

into a new

more improved

mode.

update now, update later,

whenever,

but do it soon, or you'll

be left down the road.

don't make me

laugh at your

dumb smart tv and your

3 g phone.

the black phone on the kitchen wall

why answer

the home phone anymore?

the black

phone

on the kitchen wall.

who has that number?

no one

that i know.

and yet,

the long cord,

and circled numbers,

the permanence of it,

the memory

of youth,

crouching

behind the basement

door,

sitting on the steps,

stretching out the cord.

and in hushed tones,

sweet talking

some girl.

how can i ever let go?

pulling the red wagon

those early hours,

dark mornings, 

with the world asleep,

pulling the red wagon

along,

the dog

at my side,

the post

rolled into batons,

ready to be

tossed onto

cold stoops,

only

the squeak of wheels

on the hard road

cracking the quiet,

with the bloom of breath

before me,

those mornings

before the sun arose,

with the moon still 

sharp in the sky,

were blissful,

strangely sublime.

partners for life

we worked

side by side for years,

John and I,

together

in a vague agreement,

still young

in age,

a business shared.

and despite

the friendship

of school and

being the best man in

each other's wedding,

playing ball

until the sun went down.

we weren't

the same when it came

to work.

which ended it

in time,

though through 

the rest of life, his cut

short too soon,

we got along just fine.

she wouldn't be in for work today

perhaps too young

to see such a thing, a mere

child

of sorts,

with shaggy hair,

and loose

cloths,

together we knocked

and entered

the quiet room,

the building manager 

using her

key,

so many on a chain,

a silvered clump,

and me,

behind her,

inquisitive as i came

down the hall,

but there, on the bed,

below

the ironing board,

the iron

still hot, though the steam gone,

her dress

for the new day, still wrinkled

stretched out,

the blouse on,

as she lay

face upward staring

at the blank ceiling i had come

to paint.

who was she, who would

know

that she wouldn't be in for

work today,

or the next and then

never at all.

food, air, water, shelter, start digging

i see the family

next door, digging daily.

shovels

in hand.

the mother handling

the wet

mortar,

children with bricks

in their arms,

the father near the entrance,

a blow torch

aflame.

they're preparing for the end.

constructing

a shelter below ground,

for the oncoming Armageddon,

having watched

the news

continually, both fox

and cnn.

a shine on everything

it's enough,

this crust of bread, this drink,

this small

abode,

this bed.

it's more than enough.

more than

i ever thought i'd

possess.

coming from nothing

puts a shine

on nearly

everything, 

one would guess.

holding God accountable

as we inch forward,

moving

in small hour increments,

towards

the inevitable end,

the exit door,

another

day closer

to what surely won't be

the finish, will it,

dear lord?

your promises

will be held up to the light,

won't they?

do you need more?

is this bowl of fruit

on

the table,

proof of God?

the bright color of an orange,

the sweetness

of the apple,

the grapes

off the vine.

is this enough proof

of intelligent

design,

or do you need more.

what about

the fly

hovering, is that enough

or should

we continue?

mistakes were made

what is there

to say,

or think of the single

room

in a shared house,

the hearing of footsteps

on the floor above,

the rattle

of dishes

down the hall.

how has this come to be.

from riches

to rags,

in such a furious

fall?

what memories appear

as sleep

doesn't come.

what are the reasons

for landing

here,

alone, and poor

under the fierce glare

of a relentless sun?

politics and food

obviously

i don't let world politics

interfere

with my culinary

choices.

last night i had Chinese

food,

General Tao chicken,

and a Mai Tai.

and today,

i'm crossing the border

down south,

with a plate

of enchiladas

with beans and rice.

tomorrow i might do down

to the Russian Tea Room

for a bite,

or pour

some Canadian maple

syrup onto

my pancakes,

with sausages from Venezuela,

then smoke

a cigar from Cuba,

do you have a light?

selecting clothes for the day

pick me,

pick me, pick me,

the blue

shirt cries out,

as i slide the hangers

down,

one after the other

searching for

something to wear.

no,

not today.

i'm not feeling blue

today,

especially with white

stripes

and a collar.

a button down.

i think i'll go with that

grey sweatshirt

bundled in a ball

on the floor,

again,

the one with the coffee

stains

and the threads

unwound.

she reminded me so much of you

the dog

reminded me of you.

but in a good way.

please don't misunderstand

me.

her blonde curls

and big brown eyes.

the way

she snuggled up next

to me in bed.

keeping me warm

on winter nights.

her kisses.

her wagging tail.

her refusal

to do anything i said.

come over here and sit

i  should fix

the wobbly leg of that chair.

the one

everyone wants to sit in when

they pay a visit.

a simple screw

or nail,

or dollop of glue

should do the trick.

i'm weary of saying

to others,

please, not that chair.

come over here

and sit.

i gave a letter to the postman

the mailman,

or is the mailwoman

now?

i can't tell with that uniform

and bag

over his or her

shoulder.

and the beard.

it looks freshly grown,

like spring

grass.

can i call her dear,

or miss,

or sir?

the high heels

are messing with my head.

maybe i'll just take the letter

to the blue

box on the corner

and not bother her

to put it in the sack.

she's got me down

you don't seem like

an INFJ,

she tells me over coffee

in the park.

at least not all the time.

what's that?

i ask.

what are these letters you're

throwing around,

labeling me?

sometimes,

you can be mean and

vindicative

towards others that hurt

you,

you're not all tea

and sympathy.

but you do need structure,

don't you?

it is a blessing and a curse

to feel things

so strongly, but no worries.

i'll pray for you

as you savor your privacy

and down time.

made in China

i turn over

the salt shaker, made

in China

it says.

the table lamp,

the computer,

the radio,

the phone, my shoes.

i look at the tag

on my mattress,

made in China.

i pull back the tongue

of my shoes,

the labels

on my food.

the television.

made in China.

i'm afraid to pull

back your hair, dear,

for what i

might discover

stamped on the nape

of your neck.

you too?

tell me how you really feel

as you lie

there

in your white fluffy coffin,

costing a pretty

penny,

the lid

open,

listening attentively

to the eulogy

of loved ones,

full of praise,

that's not

what you want to hear.

what you really

want to hear

is what they say

on the drive home,

or the next day,

out of ear shot from

the family,

and the grave.

that's when you'll truly

know how they felt

about you.

it wasn't my fault sweetheart

i see the cars

and trucks

off the side of the road,

head long

into ditches.

speeding perhaps,

sliding

on the ice

when braking in

the falling snow,

the black

slick roads,

while taking a nip

or two

from the flask

of booze,

but the car is still there.

bent

in poles and trees,

broken fences while

the people,

have staggered off

to tell her their

husbands or wives,

about

the other guy.

not always this kind

as the fish, 

loses consciousness,

drowning

in air,

pulled from the sea,

tricked

into biting

what isn't bait

but a scam of sorts.,

arranged by me.

i feel bad for it.

can i be one

to kill something so

beautiful

and free,

a rainbow

of nature,

something so innocent,

just minding its

own business, swimming

around

merrily?

is that me?

with knife in hand,

butter already

melting in the pan.

seasoning

set aside,

ready

to filet its life away?

no, apparently not,

not this time,

but i'm not always this kind.

below Grand Central

it is here

below the granite of streets

and high-rise

buildings.

the darkness, the screech

of iron

and steel,

it is here where you arrive

and leave,

with one small

bag of your belongings.

already

drenched in the smells

of what

keeps the city alive.

the grease of it all,

the fairy dust,

the hollers and yells,

the horns

blaring.

all of it in a constant

bustle.

it is here where you'll

rise on the moving

stairs,

and enter this other world.

neither fair

or fair.

who goes there?

it's alive, this house,

the bones

of it rattle

on a cold night, the pipes

groan,

the stairs

creak even without

the weight

of a single

foot

or leg.

the wind catches the shutters,

making them bang

and shake.

a whistle of cold air,

creeps

through

the loose door, the untight

windows.

in the middle of the night

i awaken,

startled by the cacophony

of noise,

i shout out,

who goes there?

have i let in yet another 

mistake?

sixty going on fifty

her age

is somewhere between

fifty and seventy.

her plastic surgeon is a God.

i see no

lines, no stitches,

no misshapen skin.

her face is as smooth

as a baby's

butt,

with a similar frozen

grin.

the goose in the window

it's a good day for a steaming

hot bowl

of porridge.

whatever that is.

it's a Charles dickens kind

of day.

grey.

snowy.

with chimneys full

of smoke,

icicles hanging from

the gutters,

where's my long coat

with deep pockets,

where are the rags i use

for gloves?

i need to get

to the market

to buy a goose hanging

in the butcher's window.

keep yourself

it's better

being nobody, going unrecognized.

fame.

it's good for a moment or

two,

the paparazzi,

the  adoring fans

wanting

a piece of you, but

you don't want that

in the long run.

keep yourself

to yourself.

it's the best way to go.

you don't want

your face

your life plastered all

over the world.

it won't end well.

stroking

that bottomless and needy

pit of your ego.

just babbling here for a moment or two

so, what is it?

what keeps you alive.

i mean besides

food and water,

shelter.

but beyond that, is it love,

family.

religion.

curiosity, sex?

or is it the cinema

and books or

Netflix?

maybe it's work,

or maybe

it's wine.

what floats your boat,

melts your

butter? what makes you

get up in

the morning and do it all

over again

with nearly the same results?

what winds

your watch

and keeps you ticking.

what or who

puts a spring in your step

a smile

on your face,

and pushes you forward

into another day?

okay,

i'm done here.

i've run completely

out of cliches

for one lame poem.

the memories are almost all good

for the most

part there are good memories

with snowfall.

the sleds,

and snowmen,

the cancelling of school

for days.

the snowball

fights,

how beautifully cold

and white

it all was,

as far as the eye could see,

but i can't help thinking

at times

when i see the children

flying down the hills

on their Rosebuds,

about the kid, Kenny, 

who hit a park bench 

one night,

and lost a kidney.

the red book of stories

my mother

would read to us before bed.

she was a good

reader.

lively with the words

when needed,

or soft and gentle.

we believed everything

that she said.

she put

stories in our minds,

lighting a candle

of imagination

that has never died.

closing the book at last

and saying,

enough for tonight,

more tomorrow,

before tucking

us into bed,

kissing each one of us

equally

on the cheek, or

forehead.

she was a good mother.

four days three nights

the brochure

is full of promise.

look at how blue the water

is, the sky.

how white the sand

is curving

along the island.

look at them,

the couple, so in love,

so perfectly

fit and young.

tanned like

melba toast.

i believe they've never

had a trouble

in their lives,

nothing has ever gone

wrong.

and what about us, should

we sign

on the dotted line,

make reservations for

the flight?

are we worthy of such fun.

of such

earthly delights?

or are we off to the boardwalk

again,

a four hour drive,

to the Ferris Wheel,

to salt water taffy

and to the ocean view motel,

four days,

three nights.

i smell what you're burning

you were

never good in the kitchen.

around

knives,

or bowls, spoons or

spatula.

what didn't you spill,

or burn.

there was never an oven

that didn't catch

fire,

or set the smoke

detector off.

you were a recipe for

a disaster

with your oven

mitts,

and fancy apron,

the bones in the fish,

the cascade

of peppers and turmeric.

your cooking was better

elsewhere,

in a different room,

away from

the kitchen.

waiting for inspiration

as i listen

to the dead poet read his poetry

in black and white

in the garbled

video

on YouTube,

i wait and wait,

for that magical word

or insight

and inspiration,

to pause the poem,

and run into the other

room,

to write

my own.

the appointment at four

i'm forced

by bad weather to cancel

the dental appointment,

the blue

light therapy

session,

the podiatrist,

the colonoscopy

follow up,

the optometrist

to straighten out my

double vision,

but i think

i'll keep that full

body massage

appointment

at four

Natasha is really something

with those hands

and elbows

when she oils up

my body and hops

on board.

the red silk underwear

in a manic

state of suspicion,

she cleaned my closet while

i was at work

and found

the red silk

shorts from a paramour

in the distant

past.

an exotic

fabric shaped to reveal

almost everything.

not well worn,

but worn

for sure on some hot 

valentine day night.

she set them on my nightstand

with a note.

saying,

now i know

who you really are,

to which i replied, they aren't

even my size.

the first out to shovel

she's first

out with the shovel

and salt,

the sidewalk

squared

and bare.

first

upon her car, cleaning

it off

as if it never

snowed.

the wipers raised

in praise

of her efficiency.

i see her red wool

hat pulled

down

her matching gloves

and scarf.

but i can't help

wonder why

she stops at her car

and doesn't make it down

to mine

with more snow

about to fall.

the coming solution

there is a chance

for this.

this

world, as it turns towards

some darkness

unseen before,

there is a shot at redemption,

at a new way

of living,

but not until

it ends.

not until the buttons are

pushed

and egos served

to the almost total destruction

of all men.

then,

perhaps then,

there's a chance to start

over,

and at last begin again.

working on the time machine

as i tinker

with the time machine i'm building

in the basement,

drinking scotch

and listening

to Bob Dylan,

i wonder how far back i should

go.

what era suits me.

the fifties,

full of plaid

and pink kitchens,

the sixties, with

the illusion of free love. or

the seventies with all that bad

clothing.

do i still have my Nehru jacket?

who am i now,

i ponder, as i lift the needle

off the record

where it skips

on the song, It takes a lot to laugh,

but a train to cry.

maybe the eighties.

punk and new

wave.

i did like that hair style.

diamonds are a girls best friend

i finally

get the ring back in the mail.

the engagement

ring

that i gave her

as i bended a knee

and asked

for her hand in marriage.

drunk with 

the delusion of love.

what made

her send back the three thousand

dollar

diamond

that she wore

for a mere six months

guilt, remorse,

a change of heart?

she ran out of room with

a new and bigger ring

to put

into her jewelry box?

who's to know these things.

i'm not holding 

my breath, 

but yes,

there are two more to go.

the angry inch of snow

a mere

inch

of the white stuff, but it sticks

to the streets.

there will

be chaos.

there will be wrecks.

schools will

be canceled,

the shelves will be cleared

of milk

and bread.

the weathermen

and women will wet

their pants

with excitement.

snow at last they'll

proclaim,

proud

of their rare predictions

coming true,

at last.

miss America

i overhear backstage

the other miss America contestants

grumbling

about the winner

as they peel off

their gowns

and bathing suits,

scrubbing the layers of make

up off their faces.

i've been practicing my hula hoop

performance

for five years,

one girl says.

and me, the other girl says.

i was already to do my tap

dancing routine

to a compilation of songs from

Meet Me In St. Louis.

we had no chance against

this broad,

the others chime in,

putting down

their juggling balls

and rabbits

for magic tricks.

a raggedy doll used by

the ventriloquist.

she never even used one piece

of duct tape

to hold herself up.

smart, tall, blonde, beautiful.

for God's sake, she flies fighter

jets for the military,

and graduated from Harvard.

and now she's doing

cancer research.

and she's a nice person

on top of that. we had no shot

against her.

i hate her, i really do.

maybe in the spring

i'm sure

my mother is wondering why

i haven't visited her,

lately.

but with the snow

on the ground

and the cold wind,

the ice,

i'm sure she realizes that

i'll never

find the location where they

buried her

five summers ago.

there's not a stone

with her name on it.

or a marker, no statue,

or cross,

no map to mark

the spot,

no bench for us to sit on,

to wile away the hours,

and talk.

Winter in the Woods

she took me down into

her basement to show me

her hand

made art.

sticks that she glued onto a board,

with stones,

white stones

from a field in New Hampshire.

dead leaves.

orange and red,

brown.

it's my therapy,

she said.

she held one finished piece

up for me to see.

i call this one Winter in the 
Woods, 

and told me that it was worth

five thousand

dollars. the latest bid.

no doubt, i told her,

at least.

turning inside out

not talking,

seems like a good idea.

to go a day

or two without a word,

without a sound

coming out of my mouth.

not a whisper

or a whistle.

just the quiet hum of breathing

as i work,

as i write.

what haven't i said,

that needs

saying again?

what ear would even listen

if i did?

O'hara

his

death was in the news.

an accident

on Fire Island.

barely half

of his life

lived.

a dune buggy striking

him

over the swept sand.

taken

to die in a hospital

in a city.

his books are on my shelf.

do i love

his work, hardly,

but still,

they're alive and true.

my fiancé, joe, she says

i'm glad

she's in love, that she's

found someone.

someone to fill the void,

to ease

the ache of her

aged heart.

i see the ring on her finger.

the gleam

of it

in the morning sun

as she

carries

boxes to her car.

the tall man

beside her,

quiet, with a worrisome

look in his eyes.

i'll miss the sound of her

fingers

on the keyboard

next door.

but i'm glad for her.

at least for now.

tomorrow,

who knows.

this will have to wait

we see the approaching

storm

hovering over

the darkened sea,

boatless

and rough,

to seek refuge beneath

the canopy

of a cafe

along the boardwalk.

our talk is delayed.

as the storm

arrives,

and the wind takes over,

the howl,

the roar

of waves.

we'll live through this,

but our lives 

and the direction

they were about

to take, will have to wait.

the Clark bar incident

as she's telling me about

the joy

of camping and

hiking,

trying to convince

me to hike the Appalachian Trail

with her,

she shouldn't,

but she does, she lifts the hem

of her skirt

to show

me a scar.

a serrated patch of skin

long healed.

shark bite? i ask her,

no, she says.

kitchen quarrel with an unruly

knife.

snake bite?

no again, she says.

i was camping

and suddenly there was

this enormous black bear

who came

into my tent

as i was eating a Clark

bar.

i was lucy to survive.

indeed, i tell her, indeed.

the payment overdue

i'd forgotten

about the check

yet paid.

it's been months since the work

was done.

i've been lax

with payments due.

and now here it is,

at last,

arriving in the mail.

a small sum,

enough

to buy a few bags

of groceries,

cover a bill or two.

a paltry amount,

and yet

not unwelcome.

as trees fall in the wind

traffic,

backed up for miles,

the blue lights of state troopers

ahead,

waving with

flares,

bundled in the wind,

out of their

cars.

a tree has fallen onto the road.

an old oak?

not too exciting,

and yet

the mice are anxious,

creeping over

and over,

leaning on their horns,

in a hurry to get back

home.

so there's hope

it's a thumbnail photo.

crinkled

with a spill of some sort.

black and white,

the edges

yellowed.

partly creased.

the smile is there,

the bright eyes.

it shines with a promise

yet fulfilled.

maybe it was in a wallet

at some point,

or in a vest

pocket, tucked

away for a sailor or soldier

as he went

off to war,

staring deep into the night

at his loved one,

so far away.

did he die in battle,

maybe,

maybe not, but the picture

still remains,

so there's hope.

brainwashed left and right

is there a news

source

not bent left or right.

but straight

down the middle,

with no agenda?

is there a talking head

without

bias.

does everything have to be

a speech of some

sort?

each column,

each bit of news written

or spoken

tainted

with opinion?

if everyone is wrong,

how can anyone

be right?

things you say now but didn't say then

there are things you say

to yourself now that you would

never say when

you were twenty years old.

such as,

these shoes are very comfortable,

i think they'll be

great for walking

to the lake to feed the ducks,

or this room has great

lighting.

i can see a chair over there

near the window

to sit and read in.

and this other room,

so nice and dark, a perfect spot

for an afternoon nap.

what's the thread count on

these sheets?

Egyptian Cotton?

let's go to a matinee,

it's less crowded

and cheaper.

i'll have the hamburger without

the bun please.

what's the cheapest station

around here

to get gas?

it's ten, way past my bedtime,

i think i'll turn in.

is it okay dear to wait until

morning,

before we monkey around

again?

a contract based on emotion

he preferred

professional women.

women

of the night,

young beauties

of the red light district.

it's an exchange,

he'd say.

a transaction,

not a business contract,

long term,

like marriage,

based on an emotion.

this was

cash for services

rendered,

minus the nagging,

the get your

feet off the coffee

table,

go mow the lawn,

dig up the weeds

and walk the dog.

my mother is coming to live

with us next week,

can you paint the hall?

at the end of it no one

gets my

house, he'd say.

i don't have to get a lawyer,

or give up half of everything

i've worked for.

i don't have to move.

i keep my cars,

my life,

my dignity.

i sleep deeply at night.

and i never 

have to beg,

when i'm in the mood.

men becoming women

there are

sayings now. which are no

longer

sayings,

but are now called memes,

for some unknown reason.

live your own life.

follow your path.

it takes a village,

whatever

that means.

be true to yourself.

etc.

i remember just waking

up and going

to work

and being happy

to have 

a good forty hours

or more of

hard labor,

then at the end of two

weeks, a paycheck.

i don't recall a lot

of navel gazing to become

who i'm supposed to

be, or not be,

and all that other

mind numbing crap.

i think Phil Donahue was

the turning

point when men started

to become women, putting

on dresses,

cutting things off and 

wearing make up.

can you get this open for me?

it's not just the butter

tub

that i can't get the lid off of.

or the aspirin

bottle,

or the box of cream,

or the tube

of toothpaste.

the triple

wrapped

box from Amazon.

the ketchup

bottle that won't squeeze.

it's more

than that.

all first world problems

of some

sort

that make my fingers

bleed.

waking up to the noon clock

you can't tell

a child

about your childhood.

explaining

the lacks

in your early life.

the work,

the struggle to survive.

you can't

moan

and groan about the distance

between

school and home

that you walked in all weather.

or the empty

ice box.

the shoes with holes.

you can't

talk about your first job,

your second

job

and the ones that followed.

they stare at you

and smile.

waking up

to the noon clock,

and say that's a shame,

too bad for

you.

dad, i need the keys

to your car.