let's go sailing

he loves the water.

he has

a captain's hat to go along

with his latest

boat.

the last one sank

because of ice,

and the one before that

caught fire.

sometimes the engine

works, sometimes

the sails aren't in need

of repair.

but for the most part,

they float.

he wants everyone to join

him on a jaunt out to 

Smith Island or somewhere

in the bay.

no worries if you

can't swim,

no problem,

there's a dingy

to hop onto if the abandon

ship order is given,

and enough

life preservers to go around.

you can see it in their eyes

how many chances

do you give

the dog that bites.

sure, she's cute and lovely,

she'll fetch the ball,

she'll curl

up next to you

at night.

give you a friendly

lick or two,

but then, in a moment

of crazy,

her teeth are in your arm,

or leg,

and there's blood

on the floor.

she's broken your heart.

she can't be trusted,

you can see

it in her eyes.

the gypsy souls

the new address,

the new phone number.

the next stop

on the bus that keeps moving.

packing and unpacking.

living out 

of boxes,

out of bags.

the gypsy souls

who scurry across

the globe,

never knowing where

they'll land next,

what place will be called

home.

each year waking up

in a bed

they don't own.

suddenly they're thirty-five

the trouble with love,

too much love,

is that you give the children

too much

of everything.

coddling and protection.

you gift them

toys and cars,

clothes and vacations,

tuition.

then suddenly

they're thirty-five and living

in the basement

playing video games

with a sandwich

you made sitting on 

their lap.

a never ending why

if you want

to understand the world

and the people in it,

you have to dig.

you have to get the shovel

out and dig,

go deep into the soil,

break through

the rocks,

the sediment,

the layers of silt.

the granite, the lime.

go down to the crust of it,

to the beginning

of time,

but even then it stays

a mystery,

a never ending why.

without her glasses

for the last year

or more,

my mother was unable to see

clearly.

her glasses

were gone.

mysteriously lost in transit

from one

senior home

to the next, then into

hospice.

i had never seen her once

my entire life 

without her specs.

and now her world

was underwater.

God knows what she could

see at the end.

our faces a blur.

were we sons, or daughters,

husbands,

friends?

i'll ask her at some point,

when i see

her again.

homemade bread

the first loaf

of homemade

bread,

is now a brick like

thing

keeping the door open.

the recipe was

simple.

four ingredients, what

could go wrong?

and yet it did.

was the water too hot,

was i too liberal

with the yeast,

the salt?

was my grade of flour

not good enough?

did i not fold the dough

over

enough times, or 

was the oven

too hot?

tomorrow i'll try again.

there are

more doors

to keep open, books

to prop up.

the metal flowers

it was

the kind of neighborhood,

with dirt lots

bordered by chain

link fences

where

no one threw anything

away.

they set it in their

yard,

or left it in the driveway.

like metal

flowers

rusting in the rain,

or snow.

the pink blossom of a stove,

the baby blue

car,

on blocks.

a yellow tub and garden

hose.

a refrigerator with the door

swung open

to see the shelves,

and bins

where things would still

grow.

and look over there beside

the pink flamingo, 

a green

washer and dryer

bought as a pair, from Sears,

in better times.

i beg to differ

we've reached that point

of gooeyness

in the relationship,

where we call each other

endearing nicknames

like sugar bear,

or honeybun,

or sweet pea.

there's no turning back now.

how can you possibly

have an argument with

someone

you just called buttercup,

or sugarplum?

growing old

as i make the mix

of yeast

and water, flour and salt,

folding over

the white

dough in the bowl,

searching

for the spatula in

the drawer,

then turning the oven

up to 450,

i wonder

if i'm growing old.

fame but no fortune

as Andy,

the translucent man,

once

pondered,

everyone will be famous

for fifteen

minutes.

most of them for nothing

of consequence.

and it's true,

sort of.

even the man on the corner

sitting on

a stool,

begging for bread

and money,

has ten thousand

followers.

the halo tilts

sometimes

a word slips out of our mouth

that reveals

what we're really

thinking.

the mask is off,

we've spilled out

a vile

thought, an angry

gesture,

a dismissive roll

of the eyes.

the halo tilts,

we're caught.

the garbage man

it's trash night.

again.

it seems like just yesterday

when i hauled

it all out

to the curb, after dark, 

of course,

i don't want to upset the mayor

of the court

and her friends.

where is all this trash

coming from?

i don't understand all these

bags and boxes,

newspapers and magazines.

these bottles and cans.

who makes all this

garbage?

i'm just one man.

it's all about the queen bee

it's all about the queen bee.

always has been,

always will

be.

look at how they surround her,

protect her.

it all seems so

sweet, with the honey

and all.

until the stinging begins

and you have

to flee.

that clicking noise on the phone

there was a slight

clicking noise on the phone

whenever i used it

in conversation

with friends and relatives,

for work.

that's when i first suspected

that things were amiss.

had she really tapped the phone?

was she really listening in

on calls?

was i being followed too?

and i had just bought her

a pearl necklace for no reason

at all and took us 

on a Mediterranean cruise.

was there money missing 

from the bank account too?

you're the last to know,

of course, you fool.

you look like your father

you look

like your father

when he was your age,

someone says

to me,

staring at the photo

album,

turning page after page

of family pictures.

makes sense,

i tell them.

not a penny more

i can't find

the right charity

to give all my money to

when

i'm no longer around.

who can be trusted with all this

dough?

childless

and unmarried, 

no pets,

few close friends anymore,

i'm troubled

by how much i'll leave behind.

i need a plan

to break even,

to write that final check

before my final breath.

to have it all spent 

and not a penny

more.

the baby tiger

she's wearing the pajamas

i got her

for Christmas

adorned with dogs and cats,

birds,

bears and lions.

she's a walking zoo

of animals.

her slippers look like ducks,

and her

hair is held back by a band

covered in images

of kangaroos.

at night when she falls asleep

i listen to her snore,

and imagine that i'm hearing

a baby tiger roar.

nothing has changed

when you hit a certain age,

you begin

to believe that you're wiser,

but it isn't true,

you are the exact same person

you were when you were

a toddler,

maybe taller, more wrinkled,

less hair, but

you still have the same brain,

the same set of morals,

you're the same person

your mother tucked into bed,

and sent you off to school.

nothing's changed. your just

closer to the end instead

of the beginning.

please, steal this car

i drive my old

car, a chevy impala,

into the city, down into

the dark

veins

of the streets where you

don't want to break

down, or get

a flat tire.

i'm done with this car.

the oil burning,

the leaks,

the wipers don't work,

the radio is dead,

it's a heap.

maybe just maybe i can

get it hijacked.

i'll leave it running

with a key in it.

i'll leave snacks and drinks,

all sorts of treats

for the thieves.

it's on me.

please, take it, steal it.

it's free.

no need to clobber me

on the head

with your gun, or threaten

me.

i even filled it up with

gas.

please, take it brother, 

have some fun.

mother's little helpers

her little pills

in small

brown bottles are a mystery

to me.

do i dare ask

what they're for?

i see them aligned

like soldiers

in the medicine cabinet,

about to go to war.

pink and white,

small candies,

some round, some oblong,

others jagged

like little stars.

are they

to keep her walking,

to keep

her alive?

there's yellow ones too.

some green,

one blue.

one bottle says take

three per day,

one with a meal,

one at night.

the birthday wish

you don't

want the small cupcake coming

to your table

with a lit

candle.

the fuss of it all.

the attention.

you don't want the waiters

gathering around

to sing.

you want the day to pass

like any other day.

no gifts,

no cards. nothing.

you already have everything

there is to have.

life is full.

anything more,

is too much.

don't wake me up for that

women

in particular seem to be

fascinated

by sunsets

and sun rises.

they shake you out of bed,

or pull

you out of the shower

and say,

quick, get up.

come here.

come take a look at this.

you're missing it.

hurry.

hurry.

you have to see how pink

and violet

and orange it all is.

guess where i am?

for a few million

dollars

you can take a trip to the moon,

or eventually

to Mars,

but one way,

right now.

worth it?

probably not, but think

of all

the pictures you could send

back to your

jealous friends on

Facebook

and TikTok

.

court jester

i used to jump

through

hoops to make her happy.

i'd sing and dance,

i was a minstrel boy for her.

making her happy,

making her laugh.

i'd juggle,

i'd sing, i'd tell her a joke

or two,

i'd give her shiny things.

this was before my head

came off,

when i tugged at her mask

and revealed

the not so nice queen.

easy as one two three

it looks easy.

everything on YouTube

looks easy.

building a rocket,

removing a kidney,

making sour dough bread,

it's all as easy

as one two three.

and there's nineteen

versions,

just follow the steps,

pause, rewind, 

take notes,

next.

a grain of salt

there's another side

to this story,

maybe two or three sides

depending on who you talk to.

depending on the weather

and mood

of the person dispersing

this information.

do they have skin in the game?

friend or foe?

are they a reliable source

of information.

blood relative?

or someone off their trolley,

someone you used to know?

till death do us part

when

the horse throws her for a loop,

tossing her

onto her head,

and she

breaks another arm,

another leg,

in six months she's back

in the saddle

once more.

her marriage

is like that too, never

saying

never again, going for

the long ride,

galloping along

and falling off

until the

bitter end.

you've changed, she says

you've changed,

she says.

you're not the person

i married.

you're different now,

i never thought

you'd behave like this.

i thought you

were calm and rational,

a forgiving soul

full empathy

and good cheer. i had

no idea you'd

change so drastically

once i was

permanently here

and who i really am

became so clear.

8 hours

everything

needs

to be charged,

needs a wire plugged

in somewhere,

the light grows dim,

the energy

drained.

we need the juice,

the power,

the current to keep

things going,

we need rest before

we begin

again.

thank God

for sleep.

find me a bed and

just plug

me in.

have we left anything behind?

do we have

everything? she asks,

your phone,

your hat, your gloves.

your map?

have we left anything behind,

she says

as we look

under the bed

once more,

open

the closet, go into the bathroom.

peruse the floor.

probably not,

i tell her. but

we'll know for sure

when we get home.

give me what you got

the squirrels

fat from the perpetual feeding

by tourists

from far

away countries,

they come up to you

stepping onto

your shoes

as you traverse the paths

of the winter

park.

they almost perform.

standing lightly

on hind legs,

their tails

dancing,

their coffee bean eyes

alive

with want.

times square is no different.

making sourdough bread

i study

the one two three

four steps

of making sourdough

bread

on my little phone.

the YouTube

channel,

of course. where everything

in the universe

since

time began,

is shown.

should i take the time,

then

the picture

and show

the world my loaf

bread

straight from the oven.

or should i

just drive to the grocery

store?

moving forward in time

at some point

the power

went out and now i have

to go around

the house

and push time forward.

adjusting each

number on

the clocks.

how i wish

that was really true

sometimes.

who sees this in us?

who sees

the worst of you?

the mood, the dark brooding,

the blue cloud

and discontent?

who witnesses that 

cold skin,

children,

the mailman,

the neighbor,

the wife?

strangers on the road,

the dog with his leash

in his mouth.

who can see this part

of you,

the part you keep hidden?

despite all of that

despite

the plush, the lush,

the thick

carpet and abstract paintings,

despite

the room service

and the turn down

at the night,

the clean

room at noon, the chocolate

on the pillow,

the soaps

and towels,

the water, just right.

lilies in a vase.

despite all of that,

the grandeur

and comfort of this hotel,

still

there is no place like

home

lying in your own bed,

head on

your own pillow.

presidents day

would Abe Lincoln

be pleased

with this holiday?

the store

sales,

the mark downs,

mattresses half price,

box springs,

free delivery.

all in remembrance

of George,

and Theodore,

and the rest

of them, for better

or for worse.

could log splitting old
Abe be rolling in his

grave right

now?

probably.

i'll never eat again after that meal

after

a big meal, 

meat , fish, pasta, bread

and dessert,

plus wine,

we both swear off

food

and drink

for the rest

of our lives.

we shake on hit, tapping

our bellies,

loosening

our belts.

i'll never eat another bite

of food,

i tell her,

for as long as i live.

me either, she says,

although i catch her

an hour later,

eating

an enormous pretzel 

in the bathroom,

that she had

hidden in her purse

from when we strolled around

Central Park.

she was from Texas

the woman

a few cramped tables

away from us

at the Carnegie Deli,

is from Texas.

we know this because

we can hear

every word she says,

as she talks loudly

as if the only person

in the diner.

on the table 

in front of her

she has an enormous

four tier stack

of pancakes

covered in strawberries

and whipped cream,

on top of eggs, and six

strips

of bacon, which is disappearing

quickly despite her

soliloquy

about the Longhorn State.

sometimes she raises

the glass pitcher

of maple syrup

into the air

to make a point about

horses or cows,

or the rodeo,

or someone she knew as

a child

who played the violin

at Carnegie Hall.

why tell the truth anymore?

no use

in telling the truth anymore.

why,

when no one listens

or believes you.

why not lie instead,

embellish, exaggerate, make

up a new

life story,

rewrite

your own book.

a revisionist  history.

who's to know in a hundred

years,

or tomorrow

for that matter.

clean the slate,

grab a pen and a sheet

of white paper

then begin

all over again.

the model

it's twenty

degrees and a hard wind

is blowing

off the Hudson, straight up Broadway.

but the girl,

a model of sorts

is in a dress above

her knee.

a black sequined thing.

she's leaning against

a wall,

that could be marble.

it's white

and her lips are pink.

she puts her hand to her

forehead

as her vacant

eyes are focus

on a faraway point,

as if looking out to sea,

while the cameraman

clicks and clicks

and clicks

until he's pleased.

almost to Baltimore

i fall asleep

on the train,

we're in between stops,

between

Philadelphia

and Aberdeen.

in my sleep

i dream that i'm on a train.

a slow

moving train.

a crowded train.

baggage over head

and between my legs.

my head leans

to the side as the car

shifts

on the tracks, then

back again.

i'm cold.

i'm weary.

i can't wait to get home.

and when i awaken,

it's dark outside and

we're almost

to Baltimore.

away from the door

the doorman

isn't just a doorman,

of course he isn't,

of course he has another

life outside

the building

where he works,

he exists in

another world

unencumbered

of the tasks

in saying hello to us

as we come and go,

tipping his hat

and briefing

us on the weather,

but we think

of him that way whenever

we see him

out and about, minus

the uniform,

the hat

and red brocade,

isn't that the doorman

we whisper to one another

as we wait

in line for our

bagel

and cream cheese,

our coffee

and say quietly,

isn't that him ahead of us?

meeting our DEI quotas

we need to hire ten

new pilots for our airline company.

the executive

says to the hundreds of people

gathered in the room

to apply for

the new job.

experience is less

important than race, creed, color

or ethnicity,

or religious views.

we have quotas to meet

and so

we pretty much need one

of each of you,

or two.

it's on the job training, so

don't worry if you've never

been on an airplane before,

or seen one.

IQ scores and testing is meaningless

now.

we no longer need

the best and brightest.

okay, let me start off with the list

of what and who

we need,

are there any Samoans here?

raise your hand.

How about Rastafarians?

Mormons?

anyone here that identifies

as a cat?

what anyone would see

anyone

could see, if they took

the time

to look,

they we made love the night

before.

with my arm

around her waist,

her hand

in mine,

staring into each other's

eyes,

and whispering

as we laughed.

and me, toying with

the buttons

on her blouse, that

troublesome

clasp

at the nape of her

neck.

a room with a view

it's a small

apartment on the 30th floor

of a building

facing the city,

the river.

one bedroom,

one bath,

a galley kitchen.

a couch, a chair, a television.

he sits

on the balcony to smoke,

and sip

a drink or two.

the hard work

is over.

sometimes he'll read,

or listen

to music.

sometimes the phone

will ring,

or it won't.

sometimes he'll wake up

in the middle

of the night and wonder

how he ended up

here,

at the end of his life.

he keeps a picture

of his loved ones 

on the table.

they greet him in the morning.

but they

aren't there.

nothing left to say

old couples,

together

for decades,

are done with talking.

they use

their eyes or hands, or

shoulders,

to communicate.

it's easier that way.

they wink,

and shrug, nod.

scratch an ear

or smile.

it's a language all

their own

earned the hard way,

leaving them with nothing

left to say.

ice box in the basement?

i was wondering

what surgeons do with all

the unnecessary

parts when

men and women decide

to transition

into the opposite sex.

where do all these

parts go to

when sliced off?

dumpster in the back,

flushed away?

saved in jars of formaldehyde

for a rainy day?

waiting perhaps

to be reattached?

monkey branching

do we need stores

anymore?

do we need 

to touch and feel,

kick the tires,

slam

the lids

and doors?

do we need to feel

the fabric,

try on the shoe

anymore?

we have become

a lazy bunch of

scrolling monkeys,

one site,

one screen to the other.

swinging

on the branches

of consumerism,

day and night.

why leave the house

anymore.

even love, or something

resembling love

is just a click away,

when you're

bored.

1964 canoodling.

my father grew

up in a different era, a time

when

kids were to be seen

and not heard.

he'd steer the lot of us

out into

the yard, or playground

to the swings,

the slides

and monkey bars.

then close the door.

he needed to lie on

the couch

and drink a beer while

watching the game

on Sundays.

it was his holy time.

sometimes he'd coerce

my mother

out of the kitchen,

often against her wishes,

convincing her

to head up the stairs

to fool around.

which disgusted us if

we came in early,

and heard from 

the top step

what was going down.

just for tonight?

you can feel it,

see it,

sense it in the air

when

you observe two people

out to dinner.

married,

or in a relationship

together.

will it survive,

will it

go anywhere, or is 

the beginning

of an end of sorts.

do they talk, do they look

at each other

in the eyes,

do they reach across

the table

and hold hands

for a while.

setting their phones aside.

are they in love, or

like,

or is this it just for 

tonight?

reaching easy

so much

of life is muscle memory.

practice

practice

practice.

study and learn.

repetition.

what looks easy

was never

easy at first, but once

it is,

all the hard work

the blood

and sweat, those tears

were worth it.

reach the easy

and then you're there.

bad news followed by bad news

the bad

news will die down soon.

things will be said,

changes promised,

the dead buried.

but by

Sunday, most of what

happened

will be forgotten, and

the world

will keep

turning.

the same sun will

rise,

the same moon will

be gazing back

with one

eye.

a different bad news

will happen.

Queen jane

i always try to get 

the same toll booth

operator

when i'm travelling on the 

New Jersey

Turnpike,

which makes the other

drivers angry

as i switch from lane to lane,

moving over

and over until

i reach her.

her name tag says Jane,

but she's far

from plain.

she's the most beautiful

girl i've ever seen working

in a toll both.

bright blue eyes, red frizzy

hair and freckles.

plump with a smile.

sadly it's a brief exchange.

she slides open

her window and

i hand her the money,

she hands

me the change.

does she even know how

i feel about her?

next week i'll see her again.

getting to the train

as i pack

the bag for the trip,

three days in NYC,

i wonder

what the weather

will be.

warm,

hot, cold. windy.

will it rain or snow?

it doesn't matter much 

to me

as i stuff the same five things

into the bag.

pants, sweater, shirt, socks

and underwear.

one bag.

however she'll need a sherpa

to get her

luggage to the train.

what else is changing

when did this happen,

or change

we ask

ourselves, seeing the red

couch

faded,

the rug a different shade

of grey.

how did we not

see or notice what the sun

was doing,

shining

brightly into this room.

what else are we

missing, what else

is  changing

right before our

eyes

that we don't see?

you? me?

if i was a rabbit

half asleep on the couch,

at three a.m.,

the remote

in hand,

i stumble onto a show

about

carrots.

i can't remember the last

time i ate

a carrot, or

bought one

at the grocery store,

but here

on this show 

there are millions of them,

all of them grown

at this one

ranch

in the midwest.

tons are loaded

into trucks,

scrubbed and washed

of round up,

trimmed

and debugged.

i stare at the orange carrots

rolling around.

the deformed ones

being cut down

to make them

into baby carrots.

there are miles and miles

of fields

as far as the eye can see.

growing just one thing.

carrots.

if i was a rabbit,

i would put the word out.

his last day of driving

i knew the day

was

coming, but i didn't know

it would

be so scary,

as my father, at 89, half

blind behind the wheel

of his old Chevrolet,

asked if the light

looked green

or red, as he hit the gas and sped

through

at sixty miles an hour.

just missing

an old lady

with her groceries,

and a troop of boy scouts.

i could use a beer,

he said,

and told me to hold the wheel

while he

reached back into

a cooler to grab one for me

and two for him.

he laughed as he looked

in the rear view

mirror,

and said, ah oh,

it's the po po.

hold on, we can outrun

them.

the dog's trust fund

as the stock

market rises, you wonder if this is

the time

to cash

in

and walk away from the table,

to stuff it all 

under your mattress,

like you did

when you had

almost nothing.

safely

sleeping on a large

sum of dough

that you probably will never

need or use

to begin with.

the question is who, or what

gets it all in the end.

which relative,

or friend?

what charity

out there should i send it to?

maybe it's time

to get a dog,

and give it all to him.

maybe a house on the gulf side

as the snow

falls

i hear the neighbor

talking

about Florida, the gulf side.

his voice

muffled in the enormous 

white flakes

and wind,

maybe

a house in Tampa,
he says

to his wife.

i can't take this anymore.

she lifts

a half filled shovel

of snow and carries

it to the curb.

he scrapes

the ice off the windshield

of their car, then

turns to me,

while i'm shoveling,

and says,

i'm thinking

about Florida.

maybe

in the spring,

when the weather

is nice. what do you think?

born to run

it's painful

seeing

your favorite rock stars

in person

now.

squeezing out

the last

gasps of air from their

lungs,

gnarled fingers

still strumming that old

guitar.

the hoarse voices

straining

to hit that high note.

and yet you go

and cringe.

asking each other, what

song are

they playing now?

it doesn't sound like the old

one.  but

it's been a good long

run,

and it's not over, not

yet,

there's more cities

to fly to,

more adoring

fans to entertain,

more music to play.

the old folks home will

have to wait

a little bit longer.

let's light a match for

just one more

song.

free range children

we were

free range children,

set loose

into the yard, the neighborhood,

off into

the storm

drains during heavy rains,

and woods

where the hobos

lived,

exploring abandoned

houses,

buildings,

near and far,

testing ice

on frozen ponds,

no parental eyes

upon us,

just set free,

and yet here we still are.

they'll know soon enough

how do you explain

life

to a child,

to a half boy

or girl,

not quite full grown.

they look

at you with eyes

blurred

with

childhood, with little

having

ever gone wrong.

they can't know,

not yet,

delay the truth a little

while longer.

let them rest.

what will come again

we need

shadows, dark alleys,

winter.

we need the cold,

the grey

trees,

their bare bones.

we need

the iced pond,

the whistle

of wind,

we need all of this

to remind

us, and 5o long for

what will come

again.

off the rails

it's a bitter angry barrage

of emails

between

each other.

when did this relationship

go off the rails?

what year?

what decade was the blood

first spilled?

neither of us wants to fight,

but we raise

our swords and go at it.

no winners,

only losers.

bleeding in the dim

dying light.

the ice covered road

i see the black

ice

on the street, slick and shiny

in the pale

winter light.

how do i cross the street

and not fall?

give me

your arm,

your hand, your shoulder

to lean upon.

we'll fall together

if we have to.

i'm not going gently

into this

good night.

the super bowl anthems

the pre-game

show

before the Superbowl, takes about

nine hours

now.

just the anthems alone,

consume

a solid hour

of singing and dancing.

the national anthem, 

the black

anthem,

the Mexican anthem,

the Italian

anthem, the American Indian

anthem,

the Polish anthem,

the Japanese anthem,

the pride anthem,

the transgender anthem,

and all the other woke anthems,

etc. etc. ad nauseum.

apparently we need to play

every anthem from

around the world now,

to make everyone

feel good.

and we all want to feel good,

don't we?

the game

is an afterthought.

the wind chime

there are things

to buy

that we think are a good idea

at the time.

we have an itch

that needs

to be scratched.

the above ground pool,

for example, or

the hot tub

on the porch, full of algae

a month later,

the Rolex watch you bought

in Times Square,

that stopped

on the way

home on the Vamoose Bus.

the pool table

squeezed into the basement,

but you have

to use

the short cues

on account of the walls.

there's

the sports car that spends

more time

being fixed

than driven,

and then there's

the wind chime

that won't stop ringing.

slight spike in the old glucose

it's a nine

dollar cup of coffee,

soy

milk,

four shots, 

whipped cream,

and

sugar.

a peppermint

spill

of some sort,

and flakes

of chocolate

on top.

i use the coupon

i got

for Christmas.

dropping change

into the tip jar.

one sip

and i'm shaking,

my liver

about to pop.

cue up Lola

when you hear

two men,

two men of any age,

heading to 
Thailand

for a vacation, you say,

ah oh.

yikes.

what's up with that?

trouble is

on the horizon of a strange

kind.

cue up Lola

by the Kinks.

the shared den wall

it's just

one wall, she says.

i want

it a glossy pink

and i want to put up clever

sayings

of positivity

all over it once the paint

dries.

words like

love and courage,

peace

and joy.

smile.

so, what do you think?

no.

i don't think so.

it's a dumb idea.

it stinks.

eager consumers and dopes

we're supposed

to care

about the weather,

global warming,

big oil,

all the wars,

the refugees,

the sick, the dying,

the homeless,

crime,

the poor.

we're supposed to be in

a constant state

of worry

about

the prices, about politics,

about

the football game,

about

celebrities.

everything is pushed

in front of us

every second we're awake,

jammed down our throats

with a plunger,

brainwashing us into

eager consumers,

and mindless dopes.

searching for flowers at the last minute

i see the men

wandering around the store,

a heart shaped

box of candy in hand,

a card,

that's pink that

they haven't

even read,

but will sign as they

press it against

the dashboard of the car.

they stand at the flower

section,

near the apples

and oranges,

grapes.

they're panicked, nearly

every ten dollar

bouquet is gone.

the bins are empty,

with petals

on the floor.

they look at each other

in panic,

until one of them says,

i've got an idea,

there's a cemetery nearby,

and off they go.

you need a membership card

i try

to get into Costco without

a membership

card,

but there's barb wire around the store,

armed guards

and police dogs.

search lights

sweep the area.

a guard is standing at the door.

i call a cartel in Mexico

to help me

out,

but they say no,

we can do your country, but a big

store like

that, we have no chance

of getting in.

it's way too hard.

falling short of the goal line

some mornings

i feel

nostalgic

about the pain in my knee,

the left

one in particular

that i injured on an end

sweep

in the turkey bowl game,

falling

short of the goal line.

the pain

isn't there today,

for either things.

has it really changed?

it's not the same,

how could it be, there's

been too

much water

under the bridge for

the old

neighborhood to stay

as it was,

or was it ever that way

to begin with?

i drive slowly

down the streets of childhood

staring

into the window

of the house i once lived in.

memory and imagination

paints a different

picture of how it was,

it's almost always

wrong.

you don't know who i truly am

you hear

kids telling their parents these days,

i don't feel loved

by you,

you don't know who i really am.

and i laugh,

i can imagine

saying something like that to my

father.

going up to him,

after a hard days work,

his shoes off, lying on the couch

reading the paper.

standing in front of him

and saying,

dad,

you don't know who i am,

you don't even

try to understand me,

he'd look at me, and say

something like,

what the hell are you talking about?

now go wash

your hands,

it's time for dinner.

and pull up your zipper 

for god's sake,

it's down.

what about me?

we used to have

these sweet tender moments,

after making

love.

often referred to as pillow talk.

the kindness

of cuddling,

skin against skin,

arms and legs entwined,

as we talked

about so many things.

dreamily 

making plans

for the future,

but now, when it's over,

she bumps

with an elbow in my ribs,

and says,

is that it?

what about me?

just one more, one more

as i sit here,

weary from work,

fingers on the keyboard,

looking up

at the clock,

i hear the whisper from

the bedroom,

the pillows, the sheets

and blankets

telling me it's time, come,

you've got nothing left.

tick tock.

true story about Billy Macallister

the firemen,

with the sweltering

heat,

in the hot summers in Philly

would

come down the street

and crank

open

the hydrants with a large

wrench,

the water would spring

forth like a geyser

into the air,

drenching us gleefully

with cool

water.

but sadly, one kid,

little Billy Macallister

got caught up

in the blast

and went flying

straight up like a bird,

we never saw him again.

the first slap

we're all on the clock,

some

sort of

hourglass that has been turned

over

since day one,

the day

the doctor

slapped your bottom

and handed

you to your mom.

is this

a good start to your

life?

to be hit and punished

before it even

begins.

like a horse 

cracked with a whip

at the start

of race,

it's on.

the moon landing dissertation

he doesn't believe

we ever

landed on the moon,

giving

a dozen

explanations of how they

faked it.

they lied to us.

it's the government, he says,

as he bends

over to tighten

the pipes

beneath my sink,

you can't trust them.

we pay

our taxes and what

do they do with it?

where do our dollars go?

i look at my watch,

and sigh.

he's on his back now,

asking

for the flashlight.

i know it's you

the number,

unknown, blocked from view,

private

or restricted,

but

i know it's you, i can

tell by

your heavy

breathing,

i can hear your fingernails

tapping

against your desk,

your shoes,

rattling beneath it.

i can smell the perfume

on your neck,

hear

the ticking of

your heart, the blinking

of your lashes

against your brown eyes.

in the silence, 

i hear

every word

you've ever said. yes dear,

i know it's you.

it's a strange piece of fruit

it's a strange

piece

of fruit,

this dark green pear

shaped,

thing,

that looks like it's

been slightly

pummeled

with a ball peen hammer.

and what's with

this mega

seed within, who's

idea was that?

not to mention

the soft pale mush

of green,

spooned out, claiming

to be a healthy

fat.

arriving sooner or later

i have no

frequent flyer miles.

no

points on my card,

no credit

towards

any flight or destination,

near or far.

i'm a driver,

a train taker, a bus

passenger.

or

when i have to 

i put on my walking shoes,

and place

one foot in

front of the other

to get to where i want

to go.

still on time.

busy with our hands

there is

some sort of Zen

in nearly every

task we

do.

whether laundry

or painting,

carving,

cleaning the windows

in the far room.

pushing the vacuum

across the floor.

we disappear for awhile

in the job,

trimming hedges,

planting or harvesting

the land.

the world and its troubles

seem to fade, seem to slip away,

for a moment

as we busy ourselves

with hands.

even Cher wouldn't wear this

reluctantly

i'd put on my crazy Christmas

sweater

that my mother

gifted me.

it looks nice on you,

she'd say, as i came

through the door,

even the dog averted

his eyes,

as sisters and brothers

chuckled.

it was

red and green

with bold streaks

and

yellow stripes.

sparkles were

embedded in the sleeves

and collar.

it was too glamorous 

for even

Cher to wear

on a performance night.

stupid or brave?

there's a fine

line

between courage and

stupidity

that we all

straddle over from

time to time.

to save

another or oneself

is one

thing, a commendable

achievement, 

but risk

without reward is

another.

there's only a split

second

to decide.

free coffee and one donut to the first patient

i go online

and find a class to take

to become

a psychiatrist.

three one hour

sessions

with an AI instructor

and i get my

certificate

in the mail.

no testing necessary.

i already have most

of the books

that they recommend

i read.

i've underlined them

profusely.

as a bonus,

the online class

provides the first

five patients

for free.

i have a drive-up window

to my house,

and a sign that says

open for business.

i'm ready

to start

helping people.

free coffee

and a donut

to the first person

who arrives.

please, don't be a stranger,

pull up sometime and i

can help

you with your misery, 

i can bring

joy and happiness

to your life.

when the ambulance arrives

it's an aging neighborhood,

some of us

have been here

since the first house was built

in 1967,

a quiet village

in the woods, with

a stream out back,

so when

the ambulance pulls up

quietly

in  the cul-de-sac,

with lights aglow,

spinning

red and white, 

the shades

go up,

the blinds rise,

doors open,

everyone needs to know,

who's ill,

which one of us now

has died.

never pay ahead of the work

when

the plumber says, i'll be there

by 9 a.m.

today,

don't believe him,

he won't.

yes, he knows you need

water

to bathe in, to drink,

or cook with,

but 

he has a different agenda.

pipes

and wrenches are his

business,

not scheduling, or adhering

to some

clock, or calendar

on the wall.

strangely his phone isn't working

now,

and he's already

been paid.

the starfish in bed

some people

curl

into a ball, and sleep that way,

hands under

their face

or head, legs and arms

tightened

together, while others,

fall asleep

in a semi-colon position,

leaning one way

or the other,

partly off the side

of the bed,

but not her, she was starfish,

legs spread out,

flat on her back,

arms straight over

her head

as if signaling a ship

at sea

with semaphore.

there's more trail up ahead

you have

to put the past behind you.

you have

to get on the horse again,

and say

giddy up,

do better,

be better and don't look

back.

put dust

on that trail behind you,

cowboy,

there's more trail

up ahead.

and then it wasn't

i was

very grumpy that year,

and the year

after that.

exhausted,

quiet and brooding,

work was

slow.

the stock market

crashed,

the marriage was failing,

whatever love

there may

have been was gone.

everything

seemed to be coming

to a grinding halt,

dropping me into

a deep hole.

it was a dark time 

to be alive.

and then it wasn't.

she was very hungry that day

what's cooking?

i ask

as she stands in the kitchen,

her hands

in a bowl,

the oven on,

the counter full of fruits

and vegetables

i've never

seen before.

cuts of beef, and chicken,

pork

are on the cutting

board,

shrimp

and fish,

the fridge is open,

throwing a ray

of cold light onto

the butter,  the flour,

the sugar

and spices while

the food

processor spins

frenetically,

and she has music on.

what's cooking?

i ask again,

to which she winks at me,

and says

everything, nearly

everything.

it's fear, that's exactly what it is

is it

fear that keeps me from

jumping out

of an airplane

for no reason 

other than the thrill

of it all,

the danger,

the adrenaline rush,

or in swimming with sharks

in warm

water blotted with blood,

or bungee jumping

at the carnival

park?

being flung on large

rubber bands

off the bridge?

or scariest of all,

saying

i do at the courthouse

in front of a justice of peace.

is it fear, or just a lack of interest.

i think

it's fear.

that's exactly what it is.

the police are on their way

startled

by the cold air,

i realize

that i'm standing on the porch

reaching

for the daily news

with no pants

on,

just a thin

t-shirt

and underwear,

barefoot,

but the door has locked

behind

me

when the wind struck,

and now

what?

i see the dog in the window,

his face

pressed

against glass,

barking.

what could go wrong?

the plumber is

coming,

the tile man, the dry wall

fellow,

the electrician

and

the painter.

i've put out notes and

envelopes

of cash for each of them.

the key is under

the mat.

i'll be at church, praying.

my smoke alarm is going off

i have very

sensitive smoke alarms

these days.

not the ones

in the hall,

or going down the basement

stairs,

or the one in

the kitchen, no, not

those.

mine are in my head.

i smell smoke

long before the fire

begins.

i've been in enough chaotic

relationships

to have learned

my lesson,

accumulated enough scars,

to know when

to run for cover

before the next fire

is set again.

it's all my fault

in the middle

of the night, she stubs her toe

on the way

to the bathroom,

breaks

a nail,

then sits on the floor crying.

it's two a.m..

i haven't seen her in ten years,

but she calls me 

anyway.

why did you ruin

my life, she says, sobbing

over the phone.

it's all your fault.

who is this,

i answer?

name, please.

transactional love of the narcissist

if you do this,

and this and this for me,

then

i'll love you.

accept you into my life.

okay?

here's my list, now go

study

it,

and make a plan

today

as to how you can accomplish

all of these

things,

and once that's done

we'll do a review,

then

i'll decide

if your worthy or not

to keep around.

tossing water balloons

we express our differences

via text 

messages.

it's a disaster.

there's no

grin,

or smile, or nuance

to any of it, it's just lobbing

words

across the mile.

there's no way of telling

someone

that was a water balloon

i threw,

not an atomic bomb,

so chill.

editing late into the night

there are writers,

poets,

fiction writers,

who wake

up in the middle of the night

and wish

that they'd written

a line or two,

differently,

something that would

fit better,

shed more light on the topic

at hand.

they'd go into

book stores

the next morning,

searching out their

published works,

and with a black pen,

open copies of their books

and rewrite,

crossing out the old words,

with new ones.

how wonderful

it would be if we could

do the same thing

with our life.

a fifty cent ticket

to each his own

merry

go round. 

his own

plastic horse, blonde

with a mane braided

in rows of brown

and gold,

everything gleams

in the carnival lights,

bulbs

flashing like

candy.

the ping of music,

worn and out

of tune,

is haunting, as you 

go around and around,

staring

at your parents on the side,

waiting patiently

for you to grow.

they call when they need money

do you have

any grandchildren, the woman

on the train

asks me,

as the car

goes through the tunnel.

she's knitting

booties

for her granddaughter

in Norfolk.

i'm not sure,

i tell her.

who knows.

i have a few children,

three in fact,

one of each,

but grandchildren, i guess

at some point

they'll need money,

so i'll get a call and at last

i'll know.

the low end of the pool

being a fool

is not just for the young,

driving fast

and drinking,

overeating and being

promiscuous

or cruel

is on the menu.

the old,

yes us,

we have it down

too.

sometimes we never learn

the lessons

life gives us,

but somehow

we survive against all odds.

still diving

into the low end

of the pool.

i'll wait until she's not home

the girl,

and her attic, with the drop

down steps,

which unfolded into

the hallway

was off limits.

only she would go up,

not me.

what she was hiding

i wanted to know.

i'd hold the wobbly

staircase

as she went up

into the bloom of cobwebs,

the waft

of warm and mold.

don't follow me,

or else, she'd say.

ten minutes later, after

tip toeing around,

she'd come

back down,

carrying nothing in her

hands.

Sylvia has arrived

the new

AI robot has arrived

in the mail.

my personal assistant.

the batteries are in

and already

we're fighting.

Sylvia is her factory name.

sir,

she says, knocking

on my den

door, you've left the seat

up in the bathroom

again.

you left the milk out

and the butter,

and you left

one burner on the stove

on.

can you please be more

careful.

are you going to make

your bed,

or do i have to do

that too?

i look for the remote control

to turn her off,

but she miles in that metallic

way she does,

and says,

mischievously,

is this what you're looking

for?

showing me the remote

in her high held

hand.

being crushed with pieces

falling to the floor.

get used to it

at first,

when something bad happens

to you,

you sulk,

you get depressed and sad.

you grieve

the loss of a loved

one, a pet.

the job the you didn't

get.

the pipe that breaks,

the house

that burns down.

you're downcast

and can't

get back up.

your mind is stuck in

victim hood.

is it karma of some sort,

is God punishing you

for something

you said or did,

or is this just the world,

and you need to

get used to it.

shivering in our leather jackets

there was

something cool and dangerous

about

Maxie Sabron,

the leather jacket,

his black hair,

greased back,

the look

in his eyes that he could kill

his own

mother if he had too.

there was a long scar

down the side

of his face,

of unknown origin.

he offered me

a cigarette as we stood

in the playground

after dark,

shivering in the cold,

in our thin coats.

i was half his size.

i didn't take it.

i was never on the inside

of our pretend hoodlum

group

after that.

no break ins, or stolen

cars,

or stealing

from stores for me.

no one inked my arm

with a needle

and blue

ink.

replacing the broken vase

i try to glue the old

vase back together,

a blue floral thing on

white, fired

in a kiln a century ago,

bought in Italy.

i hold it under a bright

light and carefully

put the pieces in place,

like a puzzle.

the edges

though, are crumbling,

dirt and dust,

the ravages

of time and air keeps

it fragile.

no sooner than i'm done,

and set it back on the sill

by the window.

i hear the crash.

i can't just go to Target

for a new one.

Italy, here i come.

my bad

i'm admonished

for falling behind on 

his status report,

not keeping up with his daily

events,

posted on a variety of social

media platforms.

Facebook and x, and

so many others

that i can't count.

i missed

his new job posting,

the new relationship

that he's in.

i missed the post telling

the world

that his

dog died, and that

his mother is getting divorced.

i missed

the move from one city

to the next

and

that he had the flu,

i was never aware of

his new haircut, and what

book he's reading

or movie he's gone to,

or how much

money he lost when he bet

on the Bears.

i've fallen behind

on all

my celebrity news

when all i had to click

and follow his life.

how i miss the telephone,

or the knock

on the door visit

to shoot the breeze

and catch up.

on the way to the Eastern shore

on the way down

route 50,

straight east,

before Cambridge,

we stop

at a small roadside shed,

open on the front

with boards that are

hinged above

with odd nails and screws.

there's a wooden sign 

planted on the roadside,

waist high, saying

lopes and strawberries,

melons

and tomatoes. sweet corn.

LOCAL, is in large

caps.

the ink looks etched on by

a hurried hand,

house red, left over perhaps

from the door

and shutters we passed

a few miles back.

there's a fat man sitting in a 

folding

chair, fanning himself

with an oriental fan seen last

in an old movie,

with Robert Mitchum

or Richard Montgomery

circa world war

two in Japan.

his eyes are closed, and his skin

is a burnished color,

that one has

from a lifetime of field work.

the bright greens and yellows,

the reds

of the fruit and vegetables,

are in contrast to everything

around us,

the dry flat field that once

held corn looks tired,

with endless rows

of bent stalks,

suffering under the boil

of a sun and the long summer,

now over.

the man's wife,

we guess that,

is arranging her produce

in boxes

on a folding card table,

and turns to greet us,

not with a smile

but with the worried look

of hard times.

help yourself, she says, bags

are over there.

and if you have to go, there's

a bathroom

around back.

she's holding a large green

apple in her

hand, that she

wipes with her checkered apron,

before taking a bite,

which makes the man sit up

and open 

his cold blue eyes.

slings and arrows

the second

i send the letter out, i have

regrets.

damn.

it's not that i regret sending it,

it's that

after further

thought, i left so much

out that i could

have said,

to eviscerate

the intended target.

it's hard to do a part two letter,

once the first

part is in the mail. 

it's all about the rewriting,

and letting it

sit and marinate

in the drawer

before the stamp goes on,

and off it goes.

i need to remember that

the next

time i sit down with

my bloody pen,

my slings and arrows.

no money, no problem

no money because

we don't work, no problem.

short of cash,

short of dough to buy

a car,

or take a vacation, no funds

to have a wedding,

or to take a honeymoon

to the south of France,

no worries.

we'll start a GoFundMe page

and watch

the money roll in.

it's all for a good cause

and what are friends for anyway?

it's the bank

that keeps giving.

hand me my phone, let me

check our account and see

how we're doing.

a dog with a cigar

we used

to go to the big flea

market

in the enormous Quonset hut

in Chantilly.

two bucks

to get in, to peruse the rows

and rows

of other people's

gold,

or junk, depending on

who you

talk to.

dolls from the 19th century,

posters

and books

full of dust

and mold, shoes from

the civil war,

a musket, a jacket with

a bullet hole

in the back,

and over there, by the newspapers

wrapped in

plastic,

is a porcelain statue

of a dog smoking

a cigar

wearing

a ship captain's hat.

a thimble full of knowledge

the more

you know, the more you realize

how little

you know.

despite all the schools and books,

and inquisitive

research,

you can fill all of that

knowledge

into a thimble.

there's more,

always more, and 

still after all

of that,

you're not a bucket

full.

will i fit into the box?

is it the gummy bears, doc?

the processed foods,

French fries

and vegetable oils,

the sugar,

the carbs, the grease and fat

from lays potato chips?

the bacon,

what is it doctor

making

my tummy stick out like

i'm in my second trimester

of giving birth?

what is

making my cheeks puff out

like the jowls

of a chipmunk

eating nuts.

is it genetics,

society,

peer pressure that's making

me buy a donut

every morning,

and eat

a nutty buddy ice cream

bar before i go to sleep

at night?

help me doc,

help me, before i die

and i no longer

fit into the box.

group hug

it used to be,

there were good people,

and bad

people.

but now we give them sophisticated

labels

from the DSM.

narcissists,

covert or grandiose.

they're toxic now,

not nuts,

or lunatics,

or Wack a doodles.

they're borderlines,

sociopaths.

trauma bonded

lost souls,

with cognitive dissonance,

needing treatment and pills,

hug and kisses,

and despite the crimes

and trouble

they cause,

not jail.

taking the long way around the globe

you see on the news

hundreds

of Chinese people coming across

the border

in Mexico to 

Arizona or Texas,

California.

people from Iran,

Iraq, 

Nigeria.

dragging

their luggage

and children along.

how are they getting into

Mexico

in the first place

with their bags packed

minus a work

visa, or passport?

what are they

fleeing from,

taking the long away around

the globe.

apparently they know

where

the leaks are,

where the fences have holes.

who are these people?

the news

loves to broadcast the latest polls.

the percentages

of who's for

or against anything

or anyone

across the board.

who are these people

answering these questions?

being marked off

as yes or no.

undecided?

i've never known anyone

who's been

in poll,

including me.

a little mischief

we all need a little mischief

in our lives,

a slight

bent way

of causing a ruckus, but

doing no harm,

perhaps a sarcastic

swipe

at politics or life,

the grave.

we need a little dark humor

sometimes

to carry on.

the blue line

it's a deep

blue,

this streak of dried paint

on the back

of my hand.

a thin line reminding

me of

work.

not done today,

or yesterday, but of a week

ago.

in time i'll take

a bar of soap

to it,

i'll scrub hard,

and wash it away.

some memories take longer

than others

to be rid of.

some Canadian coins as well

the penny

jar is nearly full.

not just with pennies 

but with

silver coins

too.

i pick up the enormous

green jar to judge

its weight

before carrying it

to the car.

how pleased they'll

be at the bank

when i pour

it all into the machine,

and let it

noisily crank.

running in the rain

i saved her life once.

she was running

across the street in a dark

rain,

her head down,

covered by her coat

and hands.

she didn't see the car 

coming towards her,

or did she?

so i screamed as loud

as i could,

and the car stopped

inches from her body.

she looked back at me

in anger,

and i had the strange feeling

that i had done

the wrong thing.

a drawer full of watches

it's a drawer

full of watches, some

cheap,

some expensive,

blue

faces and white,

a few with

diamonds encrusted,

others of

the digital kind.

gifts

from birthdays or Christmas.

some

still ticking,

others dead

and stuck forever

in the hour they died.

not unlike us,

i suppose.

after the rain stops

does this

rain

remind you of anything,

i ask

her.

as we huddle

under the storefront.

yes, she says.

it reminds me of so much.

of so

many things

i've yet to do in my life,

i think

of what hasn't been

done,

maybe

when it finally stops,

and the sky

clears,

i'll begin

to fix that.

a cult of one

so what

will make you happy,

dear one?

more money?

a check in the mail.

a visit.

a car,

a new phone?

what will put a smile

on your face,

pay your bills, 

should i tell you

how wonderful

you are?

do you need more

praise and adoration?

a crown for your head?

a pedestal 

to set you upon?

others are doing 

that already,

sorry if i don't join in

on your cult of one.

the worst arguments

the worst

arguments are with those you love.

gut wrenching

quarrels

that never

seem to get solved.

nothing said

or done,

gets you anywhere,

grudges are held

forever,

same blood,

same

parents, same house,

it makes no

difference,

there's no peace, no

solution,

just like the world we

live in.

there's walls erected,

and

barbed wire fences.

how the government works

a bill in the house

or senate won't pass until

everyone

gets his or her

slice of cake.

you want the border closed,

sure,

but first we need

to supply arms

and money,

weapons and missiles

over seas.

you want to stem the flow

of illegals,

okay, sure,

we can do that, but first

how about

a new chair

in my office and a gourmet

meal from down

the street.

i'd like a cappuccino

machine

and fresh bagels with

cream cheese

every morning

in my suite,

you want to curb inflation,

or to solve

the homeless

problem, sure, we can do

that. easy, no sweat,

but first read my list of

demands,

give me those,

then will negotiate

the rest.

new love

the first

step into the cold water

is hard,

the waves

lapping further

and further

up the thighs,

to the waist.

the sand

between your toes

pulling

you.

the chill

on your skin, your

chest,

eventually

there's no other way

around

it,

you have to dive in.

so easy to figure out

the dog

will tell you what he needs,

what

kind of love

he desires,

the ball in his mouth,

the chase

in the yard,

lying on his back

presenting

his warm

belly to be scratched.

the lick,

the bark and playful

growl.

the tail wagging, 

unlike us,

they're so easy to figure

out.

lost in translation

texting

is baffling, there is very

little

nuance

in the words,

no wink

or smile, or grin, just

the weak

imposter

of an emoji.

but what is truly said,

if important,

gets lost

in translation.

the key under the mat

i leave

the check out for the plumber.

the number

unfilled.

but i've signed it.

he's a good

man.

i leave

the key under the mat.

the note

on the counter.

i trust him

with water, pipes

and washers,

toilets

and traps.

the check.

it's good to have a plumber

like that.

it's too new to get rid of it

if only

that chair was frayed,

or the color

faded,

or if i could find some

sort or rip

or stain,

a wobbly leg,

maybe then i could find

the excuse

to get a new one.

i should really sit

and eat

on that chair sometime.

it bugs me

how new it is.

it hasn't aged a single

day, even

with ten years gone by.

takes two to tango

i regret a lot of things

in life,

the list is long, so don't

get me started,

but at

the moment

it's the burrito

i ate last night with

chicken

wings

i think it was the hot

sauce

mixed with the beans,

or that third

margarita with salt

on the brim, and then

later dancing

the tango

until dawn

with Ginger Lynn.

Cardinal at the window

this persistent

red bird

won't leave me alone.

there he is

at the window

nearly

every morning. sitting

on the sill,

looking in,

flapping it's crimson

wings.

a pretty little

bird.

you'd think he'd have

other things to do,

than checking in

on me.

down goes Jorge

my old friend Jorge

who i haven't seen

in ages,

is going

through a divorce.

he doesn't know

what hit him.

suddenly, he says,

out of nowhere,

my wife was unhappy and living

in a motel

with her new

boyfriend, Jimmy,

and her red BMW

parked outside.

she wants half of everything

he ever earned

and saved.

that's a shame,

i tell him.

been there, done that.

and by the way,

what's her name?

oh no.

not her again.

tell her i want my

vinyl records back.

and by the way,

you know, she bought

that car

with my divorce money

and alimony?

prenup, Jorge, i tell him.

i told you

so many times,

prenup, but did you listen.

nope.

the ten commandments

my grandfather

told me the story about how 

Moses came down from the mountain

with his tablets,

holding the ten commandments.

supposedly he went to high school

with him, 

and were on the same

sports teams, and

the chess club.

but after that they got thrown

out of school and Egypt

for throwing spitballs.

so they left.

he said, they

were exhausted hiking

around the desert all the time

and finally took

a break while waiting for Moses

to come back from wherever

he went to.

there was

no shade, hardly any water,

and we were sick of eating goats and olives,

he said.

we didn't even have a pot

to pee in, not to mention

the king of Egypt was hunting us down

because of his crazy wife.

and here comes Moses, he said.

all smug and what not,

in his long striped robed

and shocking white hair and beard.

grumpy doesn't even come close

to the word to describe him.

he had cotton mouth

and these little burrs stuck

in his beard.

he started yelling at us, and giving

us a whole new set of rules

to live by.

no lying, cheating, stealing,

and no killing anymore.

can you believe that. no killing, what

the hell.

and get this, no more sleeping around

if you were married.

he had it all written down on

these two stone slabs.

anyway, more later.

i need a nap.

4 star service again

the barista

pushes the receipt towards

me

as i pick up

my small black coffee

and bagel

with cream cheese.

she points

at the website

printed at the bottom

of the small slip of paper.

she wants me to do a survey

online,

telling the company

how well she did

in serving me

this morning.

describing how she put the cup

under the nozzle,

pulled it

and filled my cup 

to the brim

with a nary a spill.

and then taking the bagel

out of the fast

oven

and placing it in a bag,

with two pads

of butter.

kerry gold and a plastic

spork and knife

tucked in.

she even spelled my name

correctly

on the side

of the cup.

4 stars again.

was she ever happier than there

was she ever

happier

than there, with her three

meals

per day.

the old world

fenced out.

her favorite chair near

the far

window

overlooking the yard,

and others

at play.

it seemed so,

the lines on her face were

less.

her age going

backwards

as each care

flew away like the bird

on the sill,

at last 

out of it's cage.

gluten free lentils and peaches

i stop by

the old church to drop off some

canned

goods i bought

a few years ago.

none are dented so i'm

not too worried

about botulism.

mostly beans and fruit

in heavy

syrup, peaches and pineapples.

i toss in

a few package of gluten

free lentils

and gnocchi too.

it's my good deed for

the day, i suppose.

but as i'm leaving i catch

Father Smith

out of the corner of my eye.

running in his

red cape.

he starts waving,

and saying

hey, hey, hey.

where have you been?

see you Sunday?

but it's too late, i'm already

in my car

and driving away.

the Bloomsbury group on the corner

there's a new

group

of homeless people on the street

corner.

drinking tea

and smoking pipes.

the ivy league

set.

poets and writers, philosophers.

they have well crafted signs

asking

for food,

and saying things like,

will work

for money,

or crypto currency, God bless.

they've attached copies

of their college degrees

to the cardboard

lids they carry.

PhD's, master degrees,

bachelor of arts degrees,

philosophy

and theology. calligraphy,

gender studies, etc.

their poems and essays,

and half

written novels

are held to their chests.

the handwriting and spelling

are excellent.

and most are in fine

linen dresses,

tweed jackets

and vests.

observing without judgement

on the train,

on the long ride to the city,

it's hard

to observe

without judgement.

it's a continuous

why,

when you look about

at the passengers

in front

and beside you.

you question them

eating

crackers

and pretzels, guzzling

down sodas

and energy

drinks. talking loudly

on their phones.

that one there seems to be

dancing in

her seat

and her friend

beside her,

should one scratch themselves

so vigorously

down there

in public?

and that man by the window,

he's up

for the fourth time to

go to the bathroom.

bumping against

every seat.

why is she wearing a mask,

like it's Halloween,

and why

is the mother

changing a diaper 

on the floor between

us.

it's best just to close your

eyes
and not ask.

suckered slowly into three hundred per month

my television

bill

is three hundred dollars a month

now.

i have HBO,

Hulu

and Netflix,

Peacock

and Prime,

i've got channels i've never

heard of before,

sling and disney,

philo,

fubo, paramount plus,

ESPN,

Sundance, AppleTV,

and AMC,

and so many others

i don't know.

i'm on the fence with

the Food Channel,

should i get it?

oh what the hell,

it's just

one more.

falling into the new world

what a world

it must be

as the calf leaves

it's mother,

falling onto the cold

grass in

the field,

no longer safe in

the warmth

and kindness of it's mum.

how strange

the air

must feel, the brightness

of the blue sky

and sun.

do they ever

get over it,

or are they like us,

a little bit

and forever undone.

everything we used to do

lonely at the shore,

i try to do

all the things we used to do

together.

i walk 

the beach,

i lick an ice-cream

cone on

a bench by the 
Ferris Wheel.

i ride a bike,

then take a dip in

the ocean,

telling myself, just

jump in,

it's not too cold.

i get a room with a view

of the water.

i get room

service,

then soak in

the enormous tub.

i do all the things we used

to do

together.

everything but make love.

you can't be the golden child

it's hard

to be a celebrity's child,

or a politicians,

the presidents

son,

or brother.

you've got nowhere

to go

but down.

drugs find you.

corruption,

money and power.

fast women

and fast lives.

how can you not

over drink,

and abuse yourself,

and flounder

around.

you'll never be,

no matter how hard

you try,

the golden child.

plants are trying to kill us

there must be a reason

raw plants

taste so bad.

the toxins

on their skin and within

fending off

the mouths

of animals and us.

irritating our taste buds.

they want to live.

nature has a way

of putting

defensive

mechanisms into

play.

even in plants.

they are trying to kill us.

but we say no, not

so fast.

we boil and braise,

chop and bake,

fry

the hell out of them

until we can at last take

a bite, chew and swallow.

of course seasoning

and butter, sauces

and gravy

also help to take the sting

off.

now see here, my friend

when someone says,

look

my friend,

when addressing you

about

a disagreement

you might have,

really, you are not their friend.

in fact

you're quite the opposite.

but i guess it's better

than saying,

look here, you

stupid idiot.

stay in bed a little while longer

some greenery

has shown

itself

in the yard, ambitious

little

sprouts,

ready to start

another season,

but snow

is on the way,

the wind

and cold.

brittle times are in

the forecast.

my advice is, 

is to stay in bed a little

while longer,

what's the rush

in starting

the day.

the bullies are everywhere

every playground

has a bully,

a red-faced fat kid,

pushing

the smaller

children around.

every

classroom, every

school,

every work place

has one too.

the world is full of them.

they're in line

next to you

at the grocery store,

in restaurants,

barking orders

loudly,

they're at

the post office

they're on the condo

boards,

they're senators

and congressmen.

doctors and lawyers.

they're in their cars

blaring

their horns

behind you.

the bullies

run the world, or so

they think.

sometimes there's 

even one

in bed

lying next to you.

she never heard the last argument

the sister

and brother

quarreled over the grave site.

the marker

and stone

bench.

they went cheap on the coffin,

negotiating as they

had been

since the age of ten.

and the final fight was on

the place

where

she'd rest for eternity,

her bones

at least.

a last argument, fortunately

unheard

by mother, who at that point

was fast asleep.

i'll sleep on it

i'll sleep on it.

i'll ponder what

to do or

not do

on this complicated

issue.

somehow, sleep

and dreams

have a way of sorting

things out.

hopefully, by morning,

the knot will be 

unraveled.

we can't find him

i tell the man

on the phone, i don't know where

he is.

i have no

forwarding

address and he's changed

his number.

he's in the wind.

but, the man says,

he owes us money.

a lot of money.

is there any clue you can give

us

as to his whereabouts?

try Florida,

i tell him.

lying in the sun, on the white

sand,

drinking a lemon fizz.

given the chance

a decent

man wouldn't do that.

a kind

man, a religious man,

a worthy

man.

he wouldn't do such things

as that.

or would he?

aren't we

all a little bit like him

inside,

given

the chance?

staying out of harms way

we learn

early that the stove is hot,

that

the electric

slot will shock you

went wet,

that the knife

is sharp,

the pool deep

and

from the roof it's

a long fall down.

we learn

to be careful in so many

ways in this life,

avoiding the pitfalls

that it has to offer.

we learn and remember

so much,

we learn

how to stay out of harms

way 

in nearly everything,

everything that is,

but love.

defrosting the frozen neanderthal man

the artic explorers find

a man frozen in the crevice

of an iceberg

around the north pole.

he's been there

for over a ten thousand years,

which they

can tell from the id's

in his wallet,

and his mastodon vest

and hat.

his beard is caked in ice,

and his extremities are blue.

carefully they carry

him back to the Quonset

hut and slowly defrost him

by the fireplace.

they lie him down on the couch

and take his knee high

leather boots off.

the cook makes him a steak

dinner and hot bowl of

chicken soup.

finally he comes around

and sits up,

getting the cricks out of his

neck, stretching his long

arms and legs.

whew, he says. what the hell.

how long have i been out?

all i remember is this woman

was chasing me,

trying to hit me over the head

with a frying pan

because i kissed her sister.

then he starts eating,

and asking for the chef.

a little too much salt he says.

can i send this back?

and a little ketchup, if you

have it.

so tell me, everyone, what'd i miss?

Ginger says she's all better now

i get

an email from Ginger.

she says.

i'm cured now.

i'm all better.

the pills and electroshock

therapy

has worked.

i'm a hundred per cent

better.

i've realized

my past mistakes

and i apologize for

my past behavior,

the cheating,

the lying,

my dark moods and lack

of intimacy.

all the BS i put you through.

it's all on me. please forgive

me.

i've seen the light and have

come to know

the lord.

i'm out of my straight jacket

forever.

let's give it another

shot, okay?

this is followed by emoji

kisses and

a hundred x's and o's.

immediately

i pull the shades down

on the windows

and bolt the doors.

ransom of red chief

my son,

when he was six used to throw

food

across the table

in restaurants,

hot dogs, burgers,

a Salisbury

steak.

he hit an old lady

in a wheelchair once,

with a chicken nugget,

which got us kicked out.

we'd tie him to a chair

like a small

animal

and let him lick 

the butter

out of the little plastic

packages

and spill

sugar from packages

into his open

mouth

making him rattle

like a snake

about to strike.

sometimes he'd hoot and holler,

whooping it up

like a wild Indian

after

putting ketchup stripes

on his face.

my wife at the time blamed

his behavior

on me,

and my upbringing,

saying that i rubbed off on him.

she may

have been right.

how long have you two been together?

the marriage counselor

asks me,

so,

how long have you two

been together,

i look at my

watch

and say, nine years, six months,

three weeks,

four days

and six hours, give or take

a few minutes.

but who's counting.

the clock

surprisingly

keeps ticking.

is that true, he asks my wife.

what?

she says.

i'm sorry i didn't hear you,

i was looking

at my phone.

what was the question?

how not to eat an orange

we're different

in many ways.

for instance,

i cut

and eat my oranges in

four

pieces,

geometrically sound.

two cuts

of the knife

and there you go.

four quarters

sitting on the plate

waiting

for you to bite.

she's more like an animal,

lowering

her teeth

into the rind

and then like a chimpanzee

ripping

at the skin,

before biting and slurping

at the juices.

if only that was our

one and only

difference.