over decorating, perhaps

there's too much

going on in this room.

all the dishes,

and nicknacks,

the pictures and flowers,

the curtains,

the rugs, the posters,

the collection

of little hippo mugs

on the sill.

ten vases of various

sizes from the Ming

Dynasty, or maybe

Target

full of dried stalks

of pussy willows.

the faux wood on the wall.

the electric fireplace.

the chandelier in

the bathroom.

the armoire in the hall.

the burning candles,

the music on five speakers

of the stereo

all playing a different song.

and now this,

a wallpaper full of

Canadian geese coming

down the steps

flying towards

the red door.

let's hope it's an EZ pas

who will

be there, up there? 

will

the dearly departed welcome

us

at the pearly gates?

mom

and dad,

assorted friends

and lovers.

relatives from the distant

past?  or

will it just be St. Peter

at the gate

with a clipboard,

asking you

for an ID, for a list

of good things

that you've done.

will all those sins have

to be accounted for,

the thoughts

you've had?

will he embarrass you

with a reel

of your life?

or will it be an EZ pass,

like on

the jersey turnpike?

the best years of my life

after my mid-life crises

i used to ride the rails

across country.

i'd hop

on a freight train

heading south,

or west

to get away from it all.

the wife

and kids,

the job,

i'd leave all my troubles

behind

with a sack

of clothes,

a few dollars in my

pocket

a harmonica in my

mouth

and a bandana

wrapped around

my head.

nothing else.

they were the best years

of my life.

nothing has ever been as

good as those

days as a hobo.

sometimes i wake up

in the middle of the night

and i can hear

and feel those

wheels beneath me as i

lie in a bed of straw

and mice.

her art on restaurant walls

i would

see her art on restaurant walls,

for sale,

the tag

clearly marked.

i'd look around the room

as i ate

and drank,

staring at all 

the art she made over 

the years.

the slashes of red,

the hollows

of greys

and blacks. the jealous

greens.

storm clouds.

each one a story. 

a small piece of me 

and her

before it ended.

i felt as if should get 

a royalty of some sort

for the inspiration

i provided.

extra credit

we learn

about the process of extra credit

in school.

in order

to make up for a semester

of laziness,

the teacher

gives you a back door

to a better

grade.

flowers are no different

in a relationship.

when you

give them for no

reason,

there is a reason.

the errand trip

i would drive

four

hours to see my father.

he had

a list for me

when i go there.

he needed a haircut,

his car

inspected,

a lightbulb replaced

in the hall

ceiling, that he

couldn't reach.

there was the trip

to the commissary,

then to

KFC

for his usual, that

they had waiting

for him

on the counter when

he arrived.

three pieces of spicy

chicken,

dark meat.

most questions answered

from home

to the next home,

in boxes,

in bins

you carried your musical

idols along

with you

to each

new landing, to each

new dwelling.

every song 

was in you. each

scratch and skip

found along the slick

surface of the

the lp vinyl, was

imbedded

in your skin.

each album was

played endlessly,

from end to end,

while you

pondered

the endless questions

of youth.

and now they sit,

in the dark,

side by side in the cellar,

collecting dust, with

most questions 

answered,

but not all.

one last look before we go

i can

see that he respects himself.

that

he looks in

the mirror before

he leaves

the house, and takes care

to comb

his hair,

to trim his beard.

the buttons

are aligned,

the shirt neat and clean,

unwrinkled,

the shoes

shined.

there's a vanity in him,

even at ninety.

let's hope

it never ends.

the gas light is blinking

there are moments,

like now,

when you feel like you have

nothing more

to say

about anything.

you're running on empty.

it's all been said,

before.

and yet,

in a few hours, or tomorrow

or the next

day.

as you scribble what's

in your mind

at a rapid pace, you'll

wonder

what you were worried for.

someone or something

has filled your tank,

once more.

a slow change

it's a slow

change, one that we hardly

see.

how the river

bends,

how trees fall,

buildings disappear,

in how we

leave.

there's no notice

posted,

no ringing of bells,

or announcements.

it's just one

day,

you're gone, and things

are different

than what they

used to be.

it must be love

they must be in love.

early love.

that mushy time

of gooeyness.

look at them, arm

in arm,

holding hands

at the table,

oblivious to the world

around them.

staring into

each other's eyes,

not at their phones.

where are their phones?

it must be

love.

someone's at the door

we used

to live in a world where

the salesman

would

come to the door in a suit

and bow tie,

with a satchel

of goods.

whether 

encyclopedias,

Bibles,

or vacuums,

or cleaning products

to get the stains

out of your contour sheets

or wall to wall rugs.

we had Mormons

knocking

politely

with their brochures,

clean as a whistle, hair

combed

and white as flour,

we had the Latter-Day Saints,

the March of Dimes

ringing the bell

with their basket to fill.

Boys clubs, girl scouts

with their thin mints

and snickerdoodles,

but now when you hear

that knock on your door,

you grab a gun or a knife

or a hot pot

of stew,

and peek nervously through

the peep hole

and scream what do you

want,

who are you?

hell in a handbasket?

it's how you spin

it,

the stock market is good,

but a thin

piece of meat

is 25 dollars.

gas is up,

but the i'm making money

on my 

5 percent

CDs.

violent crime

is down,

but robberies and carjackings

are up

a hundred percent.

the border

is wide

open letting in the worlds

migrants,

but there's a lot

of minimum wage

jobs to be filled.

all is well,

or all is going to hell,

it's hard to

choose.

the lowercase conversation

i prefer

the lowercase

conversation.

the one without

exclamation points,

or parentheses.

no underlines

or highlights.

no bold

print for me, please,

a simple

font will suffice.

black ink

on white.

let's quietly get our

points across

to each other

in gentle terms,

no need

to yell and scream,

with capitals,

no need

to say the same thing

twice.

is it really greener?

it's not

that the grass is greener

on the other side

of the hill.

it's just from here

that it looks that way.

it's no

better or no worse

than

the grass you're

sitting on now.

so stay.

leaving clues behind

she would

leave

things behind. clothes.

a hat,

gloves,

an earring would 

be found on

the floor.

a dish,

a cup

her perfume, a book

with lines

underlined,

little

traces of her

would stay behind,

clues

as to who she was,

remained,

as she went out

the door.

quitting the world

these

palm trees, this ocean.

these

white clouds

and warm

wind.

where are we?

how did we get here,

with our

toes

in the sand?

why did it take so long

to quit 

the world

and arrive?

let's dance.

a stack of one dollar bills

it's a strange

celebration, the bachelor

party.

one last

night of debauchery

before

the chains go on,

before

the cell door closes.

we go to a dark

bar where

almost naked women

gyrate

on a stage a few

feet away.

there's drinking

and yelling, loud music.

and stacks

of one dollar

bills,

ready to be given away.

everyone

is happy, slapping you

on the back

telling you

that tomorrow's the big day.

and yet inside of you,

there's a person

screaming madly,

telling you

not to say those words,

i do.

we're not afraid

the broken

sky,

the bleeding of clouds,

it's

a downfall,

a cold

ice

blanket.

it's loud.

it's telling us

to stay

inside, but

we're not afraid.

we go out.

shake it off

ignore

the bad dream.

push it away,

slough it off, like

you do most

things when you awaken

and rub the sand out

of your eyes.

but you can't.

it sticks with you

the whole day.

it's there

as you ride the bus,

as you walk,

as you work

and then go home

to lay your head down

once more.

the bad dream

is more than what it 

appears to be.

much more.

what was that, that just went by?

we went

from walking to horses,

to boats,

then bikes

and cars,

motorcycles,

trains

and buses.

planes,

ships that take us

to the moon

or mars, but now

when i'm

out and about

there are people

on electric

scooters,

or unicycles going

fifty miles

an hour.

how quickly the world

is passing

me by.

oh my God, that's my love language too

you know

it's trouble, that it'll never work out

when

someone asks you

what your sign is,

or what your love

language is.

it's doomed from the jump.

but you play along,

because she's nice and she just

cooked you

homemade lasagna.

I don't know,

you say, does it really matter?

yes, it does,

she says.

what month, what year,

what day

were you born.

you tell her,

and then she jumps from her

chair and exclaims,

oh my God,

you're an Aquarius too.

okay.

and what's your love language?

what's that?

are you a giver, a person

that touches,

do you need

verbal affirmation?

are you a pleaser kind of person.

ummm.

i don't know.

depends on if i've been drinking

a lot, or if or in a good

or bad mood.

if i'm stuck in traffic you

don't want to be around me.

table talk with Einstein's family

it was a mistake

marrying

Einstein's sister,

Marie.

the table talk was horrible.

me with my talk of sports

and movies.

my trivial babble

about nothing.

they ignored me. i sat

there in silence as

i listened

to her family

explaining the theory

of relativity, using

peas and carrots,

cutlery and plates

to describe how the big

bang took place. then

clearing the table

to give

the white tablecloth

a clean slate.

imagine this is the universe

Albert would say,

spilling gravy into

a baked

potato explaining

the density

of a black hole

and its gravity.  then

he'd throw

a biscuit across

the room,

pontificating on

the bending of light,

how our perception of time 

is a dumb but

common mistake.

when he'd say the word dumb,

for some reason

he'd look me in

the eyes

and a smile would cross

his face.

quietly offstage

is

everyone a star?

a light,

a delight to be around?

dancing 

and singing in their

own

spotlight.

each one a

soul

special, deserving

of interest

and adoration,

or are there others

like us,

that just want to be left

alone?

wet grass at her feet

to see

a clothesline full

of clothes

in the cold breeze

is to see everything.

there it is.

all that you

remember

comes back to you

in the white

sheets,

those shirts, those

dungarees.

your mother

reaching up to the line

with another

clothespin

in her mouth.

the wet grass around

her feet.

birds on the wire

it's a black and white

day,

no color.

the sky

and hills have

become one.

the wet

streets,

the black lanes,

the drizzle

in grey.

grim birds

on the wire.

a negative from

the camera at hand.

the world is a charcoal

sketch

without the sun.

before we had a home

it was

our bar, our place

in gathering.

our table,

our stools, our home

away

from home,

and then it wasn't

anymore.

we'd grown.

how many years

did we indulge ourselves

in drink and food,

flirtations?

rarely did

love came to us

when we

danced across the floor,

but we'd sing the night

away until

closing time.

it's a distant

memory now, the old

saloon. but

we remember it well

as we walk

the dog,

take the child to school.

cut the lawn,

paint

the walls and ceiling

in the basement

room.

broken mirrors

some memories

are like

broken

glass,

sharp and jagged pieces

of a mirror

shattered on the floor.

you can't

put them

back together, it's an

impossible task.

you can only

hold up

a shard or two

and take a peek at

the past,

a piece of her,

a piece of you.

putting his hat back into the ring

while

kneeling on one knee,

he presents

a ring to her,

his ex-wife,

a ring that he bought

at Kay Jewelers

after his son

drove him

to the store.

he tells her

that he's throwing

his hat back

into the ring.

even at 83

he wants to marry her

once more.

she smiles, and wipes

an alligator tear 

from her eye.

is he really that old?

has he

forgotten everything?

she helps him up

from the floor,

as he bends his arthritic

knees

and tells him

she'll think about it.

she'll let him know

in a few months or so,

keeping her options open,

but for now,

it's another ring

inside her drawer.

how old and what killed him?

the obituaries

are very stingy

with telling us the cause

of death. 

they keep it on the downlow

these days, but

we want to know how,

or why

a person died.

we scour the small print

to find

what we're looking for,

but with no

success. it's exasperating.

we want to know their

ages too.

just to get a feel

on how to dodge our

ending when

it's our time to be next.

i'm not surprised

i'm not

surprised.

i say that a lot these days.

what's new

under the sun?

what calamity, what

crime,

what scandal

hasn't been done.

who hasn't been

cheated and lied to,

betrayed

by someone,

go ahead and try,

name one.

you can't, can you?

well,

i'm not surprised.

two ruffs and we go

maybe Idaho,

or Iowa

i say to the dog sitting

in my lap.

a nice big farm

house out on the prairie.

how would you like that?

a big field

to run in.

no fences,

and me not walking

you on a leash

with a plastic bag

in my hand.

you want to bark, go

ahead and bark

your shaggy little

head off.

there's no one around

to hear you.

no neighbors to complain.

should we pack our

bags and go?

give me a ruff,

two being yes.

one being no.

spam a lot

junk mail,

spam

it fills the box

with ads

for insurance, for

pills,

for new windows,

for radial

tires, illicit

sexual propositions,

for ways to improve

your health.

the trash heap

of the internet

piles up and up

on your phone.

the thumb

gets calloused

from hitting the delete

button

all day long.

like a rolling stone

i understand

completely why they keep going

on and on,

touring

from city to city,

town

to town.

playing the same songs

over and over

again

to adoring crowds.

it's a never ending tour.

it's hard to quit something you

love doing.

it's not about the money

anymore,

houses,

or cars, bling.

it's beyond that.

it's staying alive,

avoiding that inevitable

trap door.

the box on the front porch

who doesn't

love

a box on the front porch

just

delivered by the guy

in the brown

truck,

waving.

he's become your friend

over the years.

i hope

he gets a box on his

porch too

at the end of the day.

taking an axe to it

between coffee

stains

and loose drawers,

chips and dings,

a wobbly

leg,

the old desk is still getting

the job done.

pressed wood

resembling some sort

of oak

or birch,

i forget what the bill once

said.

it was so long

ago.

even if i wanted to get

rid of it,

i couldn't get it down

the stairs

by myself.

i'd have to take an axe

to it.

which when i think about it.

might be fun.

the new building going up

men,

mostly older men, retired,

like

to get up early, have

their eggs

and bacon,

their coffee, read the paper

and then

wander

over to the construction

site down

the street.

they like to point and watch

as the girders

go up,

commenting on

the brick and mortar,

the cranes

swinging

back and forth.

you see them lined up

at the fence

in their

yellow sweaters

and hats, some with canes,

their dogs

on leashes.

no wives of course.

the divorce party

it was a grand party.

a wonderful

gathering

of friends,

neighbors

and strangers.

all there to celebrate

the end.

the end of a short but

crazy marriage

to a psychopath,

an emotional vampire

who almost drowned

me in the deep

end.

there was a three tiered

caked,

all chocolate,

balloons and confetti,

music

and drink. tons of food.

dancing too.

the cops broke

it up at three in the morning

after they

had a drink or two.

it almost felt worth it,

this party,

a reward

for what i went through.

birds do it bees do it

at an early

age,

you look around

in a grocery

store

and it suddenly occurs to you,

that these people,

all of these

people

at one time or another

are having sex

and making babies.

you're just a kid,

a mere child,

but you know enough

about the birds

and the bees

to get the gist of it.

you've seen the crude

etchings on the back

of school walls

depicting in

primitive ways what's

going on.

fat

and skinny, tall

and small,

meek

and wild.

all of them are getting it

on. even the old,

for God's sake

are taking off their

clothes

and rolling in the hay.

how long will it be 

before you too

are part of the in crowd.

the devil's work

she wins

me over with cake.

with cookies.

with a pie.

her kitchen is a mess.

she's busy

with flour

and sugar, butter.

the oven

on all day.

it's a well laid out

plan.

she knows my weakness.

it's the devil's work,

one might say.

Galapagos island

as your

body ages, it changes.

things

appear out of nowhere.

bumps

and lumps, small

things,

growths

on your ears,

your face.

there's a strange thing

growing

on your leg.

what's with

the nails,

the crusty elbows,

your

thinning hair.

you're crusting over

like some sunbaked turtle

on an island,

going nowhere.

missing the basket

the apple

core

missing the basket

in the corner

is a sign of things to come.

a portent of sorts.

i let

it get to me

the whole

day.

it was such an easy

shot to make,

and yet it

rimmed out to the floor.

not a good

start before

i head to work,

out the door.

the assembly of a woman

as i lie

in bed, watching her get dressed

and ready

to start the new

day.

i realize

what a process it is for

women.

an assembly

of sorts

from head to toe.

the make-up,

the brushing of hair,

the under garment

things,

the blouse and skirt,

then shoes,

which seem to be 

the most difficult

of all

to choose.

then onto the wrist and

neck,

a tiny sprinkling

of perfume.

the medical seminar with coffee

it used

to be a lively conversation

about sports

or women,

books and movies,

fun things,

but now,

it's about a doctors

appointment.

you see the old men

at the coffee

shop

pulling up their pant

legs,

or rolling

down their sleeves,

pointing at various

ailments and

mysterious lesions.

they ramble on

about

prescriptions 

and the differences

between number one 

and number two

diabetes.

is death like that too?

it's a sweet warm

breeze

beneath the shade of

the oak

tree.

i take a book,

a blanket,

and fall asleep to the sound

of nothing,

nothing but falling

leaves.

is death

like that too, or more

than that

if one believes.

ice cream and barbed wire

it's election time,

well.

almost, but all the candidates

are kissing

babies,

being interviewed

daily,

speaking

their minds.

look at them down

at the border,

putting up fresh

barbed wire,

licking ice cream

cones,

making promises

they can't keep,

most of which are

flat out lies.

somewhere between nine and five on Thursday

the plumber

gives you a window,

the painter,

the electrician,

the cable guy tells you,

between

nine and five

on Thursday.

there's a window for

nearly

everyone

who comes to your house

in a truck

and overalls,

with a helper at his side.

i leave

the door open,

staring out

the window. i look

at the ticking

clock, i pace impatiently

inside.

blow out the candles

we lie

early as parents.

we tell them about Santa Claus,

the Easter

bunny,

how the slide or swing set,

the monkey bars

won't hurt you.

we tell

them all is well, when it

isn't.

the tooth fairy

is coming tonight.

if you try hard enough,

we tell them,

you can be anything you 

want to be.

even president.

we tell them to

wish upon a star, drop a coin

into the wishing

well.

blow out the candles

and

your ship will come in.

but it's often,

pretty much down hill

from there.

where are you people from?

our waiter

is tired,

dark circles are under his eyes.

his shirt is wrinkled

and stained.

he forgets who gets the fish,

who gets

the steak,

he comes back a third

time with 

the pepper mill,

then tells us his name,

and where he's from.

Minnesota, he says.

but it's obvious

there is more he wants

to tell us.

he goes away

for awhile then returns

to pour more water.

finally he asks

me to slide

over so that he can

take a seat.

i'm tired, he says, really tired.

i have a wife, he says.

two kids.

my mother in law wants to

move in with us.

he sips on my drink,

and slices

the meat on my plate,

before having

a piece.

do you mind?  he says,

i'm starving.

he takes his shoes off

under the table,

and loosens his bowtie.

so tell me, where are you

people from?

can you help me find that man?

i'm looking

for a wealthy man,

Sheila

tells me on the phone.

a handsome man,

strong

and tall,

with no baggage.

i want someone to woo

me,

someone to sweep

me off my feet,

and make me

his queen.

i need that kind of man,

not a prince

but a king.

someone with houses

here

and overseas,

a few cars,

maybe a Lamborghini.

it would help

if he had

a pool too,

and a chef, and a masseuse.

i want someone to adore

me and to

overlook my faults,

someone who

sees me as who i pretend

to be,

not who i really am.

can you help

me find that man?

this money will last you the rest of your life

i go into the back

corner

of the cape cod office,

to the cubicle where my tax lady,

Betty, does my taxes.

she shoos a cat off of her

desk,

and puts her tuna fish

sandwich into

a drawer.

there's a dollop of mayo

on her chin,

which i inform her off

by pointing at my

on chin.

she wipes it off

with a W-2 form.

so, i ask her, what's the deal

here, why

do i have to pay fifteen grand

to the IRS

again?

what's your name?

she says,

scratching the scalp

beneath her lopsided wig,

then lets out a loud laugh.

just teasing, she says.

a little tax humor.

well, about that money you owe

to the feds.

your broker sold some of your

stocks last year, and so

you took a big hit on that end.

you made a big profit.

but truthfully,

you're making too

much money.

you either need to stop

working altogether,

or get married again, and lose

some money through alimony

or by another

gold digging wife.

but i have to tell you, you're

in pretty good shape

overall.

you have enough money to last

you the rest of your life,

as long as you

don't buy anything, that is.

will there be a waterfront view in heaven?

it's hard

to wrap your head around

the idea

of heaven, not that it's

a sure thing

i'll even make it there.

but what's the deal 

with heaven?

is it a real

place, with

condos, apartments, single

family homes.

an enormous high rise

going up into the clouds.

will it be a waterfront

location

with a view

of the park,

or ocean?

will there be an ocean?

and what about all the people

that get on your

last nerve,

will they be there too?

living next to you,

playing their music loud,

and cooking cabbage

smelling up

the entire floor?

will we have to share an elevator

and talk to people 

about the weather

or the news?

or listen to their stories about

some lump

the doctor found

on their neck?

and kids, i don't want a lot

of kids

around,

or barking dogs.

i may be confusing heaven

with hell, perhaps.

the neighborhood concerns

for fun

i peruse the next door app

on my phone.

did anyone hear

that loud

noise last night?

sounded like a bomb,

or a sonic

boom.

i think someone

turned

the knob on my front door,

i looked out the window

and saw

three teenagers

running away.

should i call the police?

is the Dunkin donuts

on old Keene

mill road

closing for good?

someone said a taco bell

is moving there instead.

don't take your car to the Exxon

station

on the corner,

the man in

there was rude to me

yesterday morning

and wouldn't

give me the key to the bathroom.

and i really

had to go. now my car

is a mess.

no, the tiger will eat you

it's a mistake

taking

a kid to a pet store,

they want

the cat

in the cage,

the kitten curled

in a ball,

the dog barking alone

behind the glass,

gnawing on

a plastic bone.

they want

to save them all

and bring them home.

they start to cry

and beg.

but you say no, no, no.

next time it's a trip

to the zoo

instead.

as Rome burns once more

which

brand of news do you

view?

who's

telling the truth,

about crime

and punishment?

who's lying

about

inflation and jobs?

immigration

and the homeless,

wars abroad?

who's trying to persuade

you when

you enter the voting

booth,

to pull the switch

on the next

fool

we're apt to select.

which skewed view

is the right one

for you?

changes in latitude

i understand

the need

to migrate, the desire to live

in a better

place

where there are more

opportunities

to thrive

and be who you want to be.

safe and sound

in your own home.

i get it.

i've moved many times,

out of state,

or county for

those very same reasons.

a tsunami of crime, 

a new job, real estate possibilities.

and even love

has made me pack

my bags

and skedaddle

across some border.

i suppose

at some point,

Mars too

will be a viable option.

my connection in Delhi, Joe

my pharmaceutical

connection

in Delhi,

Joe,

keeps texting me on 

WhatsApp,

telling me

that he hasn't

received

the cash for my latest

shipment

of prednisone,

and Rogaine,

and some sort of ED gel.

Joe, i say to him.

you know i'm good for

the dough.

i sent it nine weeks ago.

i suspect someone

between

the States

and India has opened

up the package and swiped

your money.

you must send it again, he

says,

pleading.

my boss is going to fire me.

sorry, i tell him.

but i sent it, swear to God.

and by the way,

what's the deal

on that jelly stuff. 

it looks like strawberry jam

Smucker's maybe.

what's the ETA

on that stuff?

leave the dead alone

it's probably

a good

thing, that we can't talk to the dead,

though some try.

how could

we explain

ourselves,

if they answered back,

criticizing what we

watch

and do.

what we say.

telling us to lay off the sweets,

the drink

and smoke.

no one likes someone

looking

over our shoulder

as we try

to live our lives

as best we can.

don't talk with the dead.

let them rest

in peace.

despite all the cutting

they rise

with neither good or bad

intentions,

unlike us,

they

seem to have no conscience.

they take

in the sun

and rain and grow

with little or no help

from us.

the vines grip

the fence

and brick, the weeds

come,

the flowers

bloom.

they've survived

another season

of cold

to live on.

not defeating

anything,

just being what they are,

complexities

born whole.

dance fever

she finally talks me into going out

dancing.

i'm reluctant,

but i feel that it's something

she really wants

to do.

i put on my old dancing shoes,

that i used to wear

when i went to studio 54

back in the day,

and off we go

to the local hot spot, where

a band is playing.

Proud Mary,

which i remember dancing to

three weddings ago.

i got this, i tell her, and take

her hand, pulling her onto

the dance floor.

i start moving my feet around

like i learned to do

when watching American Bandstand

on Saturdays,

and throwing my

hands into the air,

shaking my head like

a chicken.

all my old moves are

coming back to me as i

groove to the music,

which makes her stop

and say,

what are you doing?

itching to protest something

i try to think of what cause

i can take up.

what political,

environmental,

or social issue melts

my butter

enough to make me

become a public nuisance.

something

that i'm so passionate about

that i'll lie

in the street

and block traffic

and risk being dragged

off to jail.

absolutely nothing comes

to mind.

i'm itching to protest

something,

but i got  nothing.

the job finds you

i didn't last

long,

in the office job.

despite

my ability to get along

with everyone

and organize happy hours,

and after

work parties,

it was the work that

did me in.

the cubicle,

the ancient radio shack

computer

and printer.

the long hours

of nine to five

in a cheap suit, drinking

cups of coffee

all day,

and junk food.

the meetings, the evaluations,

the mundane

tasks

i was assigned to.

it all depressed me, made

me sad.

i'd look out the window at

someone

picking up

trash, and long for that job.

i'd imagine myself in

the orange jumpsuit,

with the long stick 

with a nail in it,

tidying up the parking lot.

ahhh, what bliss.

upgrade now available, on us

i'm inundated

with update notifications,

or tempting

offers for an upgrade.

available on us

they say,

liars.

i couldn't figure out

the plan

if i had Albert Einstein's

brain.

my phone,

my laptop,

my desktop.

every single gizmo

i own

is nudging me towards

an update.

i click and click and click.

i have no

idea what i'm

doing. i'm just going

along with

all these instructions

that are taking

me down a road

of confusion.

what am i saving?

what am i erasing?

what level of hell have

entered

this time as i hand

my phone

across the counter to

a twelve year old, asking

her to fix it.

my therapy horse

i like the idea

that people have therapy dogs,

and cats.

they take them

everywhere

they go

making them feel

safe and relaxed,

able to handle

stressful situations.

i see them

on a leash or in a crate

putting a smile

on people's faces.

i like the idea

so much that i get a small

pony,

that i start

to take with me whenever

i travel

or go into a restaurant

or store.

who doesn't like a pony?

i feel at ease as i stroke

it's soft mane

and tickle

a spot below her neck.

but

the size of the animal

can be an issue

at times,

especially on planes,

and especially

if i've fed her an enormous

amount of beans

and oats

before take off.

i know where you live

this date i had,

once upon a time,

with a girl i met on

psycohpath.com,

asked me

to help her dispose

of her

ex-boyfriend

who betrayed

her with

a stipper at the Golden
Goose

saloon.

we were eating grilled

cheese

sandwiches

at the local diner,

drinking cokes out

of a straw,

and dipping French fries

into puddles of ketchup.

what?

i asked her.

you want me to do what?

it was our first date,

but it held promise

because our profiles matched up

98 percent.

dispose of him? i said.

you know, she said,

making a slicing

motion

across her neck with

her butter knife.

ummm, i said,

choking on a French fry.

i waved down the waitress

and called

for the check.

your leaving, the girl said.

yes.

and please don't follow

me.

no worries, she said, but

i know where you live.

ever heard of google?

the downward spiral

you go through

a period 

in your life where you ignore

leaks,

that water spot

on the ceiling,

you turn up the radio

when you

hear a clanking

noise

coming out of your car.

you pay no

attention to loose threads

on sweaters,

or missing buttons

on coats.

you sort of let things go.

not cutting

the grass,

cancelling

dental appointments,

yearly check ups

with your doctor,

you let a few bills

slide,

forget to pay your taxes.

it's downward spiral from

there.

soon the house is dark

and cold,

and the po po are at

your door.

three percent Chinese?

when you

find out that your father's

father

wasn't really

his father,

and that some of the children

that came

out of your

grandmother

are from men other

than her husband,

and the fact that your

own father sailed

the seven

seas for thirty years,

a veritable

johnny apple seed

of DNA,

maybe,

just maybe, you aren't

who you thought you were.

you start to wonder

what's going

to come up

when you spit into the vial

and send it

off for an ancestry

evaluation.

closing shop

she's at the knitting

stage

of life,

she tells me,

a ball of yarn on the floor

her needles

clicking

against each other,

as the beginnings

of an

Afghan appears in

her lap.

i'm done with all that

fooling around,

she says,

sorry,

but i won't put on fishnets

for you 

anymore.

put on your big boy pants

what exactly are

big boy

pants, that everyone

keeps talking about,

telling you

to put them on

and suck it up?

are they denim or corduroys?

overalls

like the ones farmers

or factory workers wear?

are they loose

fitting,

or skin tight.

bell bottoms like in sixties?

are they capris,

like George Washington

wore when crossing

the Delaware

with white socks?

what constitutes big

boy pants?

maybe they're silk, or

made from

fine Italian fabrics,

maybe  they're pants

like the astronauts wear,

shiny

with zippers

and insulated, so that they

don't get too cold

or too hot.

where do i buy these big

boy pants?

and what exactly do you

want me to suck up?

not literally

you can't take everything

literally.

there are

nuances in life.

shades of grey,

metaphors

and similes.

you can't listen to Tony

Bennett sing

and think that he

really left

his heart

in San Francisco.

i mean who took it out

and left it there?

a cardiovascular surgeon?

did some sort

of zombie from the grave

rip it out of 

his chest?

how can you

be walking around singing,

with no heart, Tony?

there's no way

you can be

doing three gigs a week

without a heart.

the new no

no suddenly

becomes your word

of choice.

no, i don't want to go there.

no,

i don't want to do that.

no thanks,

no way.

no, i don't eat

that anymore,

no, i don't want your mother

coming to visit us.

no, i don't need new

windows

or doors.

no i don't want

any firewood,

or girl scout cookies.

no, i can't send you money

anymore.

no, i can't sleep with

you,

if you're going to 

hog the bed and snore. 

thank you cat

the cat,

as she's prone to do,

drags

in a mouse

and sets it at my

feet

as i lie

on the couch.

it's a grey thing,

limp

with a slender

tail.

thank you, i tell

the cat.

then take the mouse

and drop

it in the pail.

nice to have 

a friend like that.

picking your battles

do i avoid

conflict?

damn right i do.

do i get out of the car

and fight

the guy

who cut me off, never.

do i argue with relatives,

with sons

and daughters,

do i question

the long line at the grocery

store.

no.

i've gone a lifetime

in letting

the battles go by the wayside.

but then,

there's war.

that's different, don't

get me started.

where's

my helmet, my gun,

my sword.

and yes, it's strange

inching

towards something.

i get the feeling,

like

the breeze

before rain,

that smell in the air,

 that things

are about to change.

whether it's for the good

or bad,

i don't know.

but i feel

it coming, rarely am

i wrong

about things like this.

and yes,

it's strange.

it's all i really care about

yes, she's smart,

she can

cook,

she's athletic and slender.

pretty as flower.

educated

and successful

and knows

how to rumba.

it's a long

list of attributes

that i adore in her,

but the only one

i really care

about are her long

nails,

on both hands.

pink and polished.

she knows

how to scratch a back

like nobody's 

business.

she can

scratch a back

to beat the band.

the great northwest

why live

there?

i ask.

you're so lethargic

and depressed.

it rains, it rains, it rains.

it's cold

too.

the crime,

the streets are littered

with lost

souls,

discarded trash.

there's a cloud

of despair

hanging over

the blue green

city

why

plant your flag in such

a horrible

place.

why?

the coffee, he says,

you wouldn't believe it,

the coffee's great.

praying for fried chicken

while some

of us were praying for peace

and for

prosperity, for health,

for some

solution

to a family matter,

for love gone wrong,

she prayed differently.

i remember

her closing her eyes

in the car,

with both of us hungry,

putting her hands together,

and whispering

her prayer.

and within minutes a fried

chicken place

appeared

on the side of the road.

i could almost hear 

God sigh,

and saying to the angels,

at last,

an easy one.

forgive me father

even the pope,

or a priest

or minister,

even

Ghamdi,

or some mystical

guru,

some yoga dude,

curses

when he stubs his toe

in the middle

of the night

when blindly

finding his way

to the bathroom.

which makes God

chuckle with

delight.

my metal cloud

where is the cloud?

what is 

the cloud.

where is all this information

going.

what mystical

magical

place is storing all

of my

private information

without

my approval.

why

am i allowing this

to happen

when i have a four drawer

metal file

cabinet i bought

in 1980

sitting in my den?

it's fire proof,

flood proof

and i have a little key

on my key

ring to open it up

when needed.

the last ball shot

for forty years

we

got up every Saturday and

Sunday

morning

and met at the basketball

court

in Arlington.

half a lifetime

for some of us.

cold or sun,

it didn't matter.

sick or well, married

or single,

divorced,

none of that meant much.

it was all about 

the game.

not who won or lost.

but being

together.

men

being friends.

running, running,

as the clock chased us

home

at last.

the last ball shot.

delusions and illusions

depending

on which side of the aisle you

sit on,

crime is down,

the economy

is good,

fun is up, and the world

is a bowl

of ice-cream with a cherry

on top.

all is well,

all is well.

while the other side,

is thinking

we're stuck for four

more years

in a living hell.

we need a change.

send me some dough

it's hard

to tell a child how hard

you worked

when young,

the paper route,

the dish washer job,

the summer

you cut grass, the winter

you shoveled

snow.

it's hard to explain

how hungry

you were back then,

the holes in your

shoes,

the thread bare coat

you wore

in the rain and snow.

the lack of transportation,

the pennies you

saved for school,

for food

and a place to live.

they never saw

you in the mud,

with a shovel digging

a hole.

they look at you and shake

their heads,

and say,

dad,

that was a long time ago,

get over it.

and send me

some dough.

it's personal and business

at last, with

the numbers added up,

the papers

stacked,

all things in order,

the ledger closed

for the previous year,

the 1099's,

the W-2's,

all the forms needed

for the tax

lady to peruse, i haul

it all down

in a box

to her little cape cod

office on

the other side of the tracks.

how quickly the year

has passed.

she's older,

i'm older, but we're

still at it

and i see in her window

the old

striped cat.

when spring comes

when spring comes,

i tell myself,

i'll clean out the closets,

the drawers,

toss away all the clothes

i never wear,

the shoes,

the ties,

the hats.

i'll bag everything and take it

to Goodwill,

at least the things

still wearable,

some still attached

to tags.

i'll sweep and wipe

the floors,

the counters,

get rid of the clutter.

empty the fridge of a dozen

bottles of salad

dressing,

and fruit gone bad.

i'll do something about

the yard as well.

kill the weeds, grow

some grass,

cut back the vines.

but all in good time,

there's still six weeks to go

and it might snow,

might as well

relax.

take a nap.

she's not a fan

why so dark

and jaded,

she says in her anonymous

critique

left at the bottom

of a poem.

why the sarcasm,

and humor

about so many things?

what's wrong with

you?

who has hurt you this

deeply

that you strike back so

often

and so hard.

was your mother that bad,

your father

absent?

have you no empathy

towards others,

no heart?

you're a cup half empty

kind of guy,

aren't you?

the long walk

i take

the dog for a walk.

it's cold,

it's snowing,

the wind blows,

but we keep walking.

down

the sidewalk, to the dirt

path

across the road,

to the woods,

past the playground,

the school,

we come out the other

side,

to the highway,

to the bridge,

we keep going, keep

walking.

the dog looks back

at me

and smiles.

cold front moving in

after the honeymoon,

which was

an

hour

at a Chinese restaurant

with

little pink

umbrellas in our drinks,

she started to complain

about

how i dressed,

where i worked,

my snoring,

the way i cut my hair,

and at times,

how my topics of conversation

were mundane

and boring.

how did love

end so quickly

with the ink not yet

dry?

one chip left in the bag

how quickly

we're out of ink, out of milk

or cream.

we're low

on gas,

detergent, paper towels

and 

some many things.

there's only

one chip

left in the bag.

dear Lord.

how quickly we run

to the store.

we can't do without.

it's an ever ending 

merry go round, 

and they know

as long as we're

alive,

they'll keep making more.

under the big blanket

maybe it's the light,

the low

sun,

the grey sky, the snow

now slush

no longer

white.

maybe it's the lack of sleep,

bad food,

bad drink.

maybe it's a lot of things

all tied together.

maybe it's you.

maybe it's me.

whatever it is i'm

under the big blanket,

in bed

and under the weather.

the spaces between

there are pauses,

empty

spaces,

short and long silences

between

words,

between visits, between

meals.

there is the tunnel

that the train

rolls through,

the short cold

darkness

between light.

the nothing

between heart beats.

there are the nights

without dreams,

with spaces

on the bed were you once

lay beside me.

not broken enough for her

she liked

to rescue cats and dogs,

birds

with broken wings,

even an injured

squirrel,

twisting in the wind

on the side

of the road, would get

her care.

her house was an infirmary

of animals,

stitched up,

bandaged, some with splints

on their legs,

ice on their fur,

feathers

were everywhere as

ointments

and smelling salts

filled the air.

even old friends

and lovers

would line up for her care,

which made

less room for me,

it seems i wasn't broken 

enough for her.

poke me anywhere

i used to faint

at the sight

of a needle about to pierce

my skin.

the glimmer of a syringe,

the tip

gleaming

with some sort of vaccine

or numbing agent.

i'd grow sweaty

and pale,

my mouth would go dry,

and i'd twitch

like a cat

in a room full of rocking

chairs,

but now.

who cares.

go ahead. make me a

dart board,

poke me anywhere.

lollygagging along

at last,

it took some time, a lot

of years,

but at last

you're no longer in a hurry

to get anywhere.

those days

of frantic

driving,

of beating traffic, punching

the clock

on time, are over.

now you're in the right

lane,

rolling slowly

along.

observing their lives,

lollygagging

near the shoulder.

trickery and tom foolery

the world

is full of trickery,

you can't

buy a mattress without some

song and dance,

some sort

of testing of springs

and fabric,

a deposit before delivery,

in advance.

the world

is a crap shoot, of 

find

the bean beneath three

shifting cups,

the card game,

the roulette wheel,

the shiny car on the lot,

nothing up

my sleeve,

the wishing upon a star

at night.

even love,

is a toss up, a flip of the

coin.

good luck.

falling onto 5th avenue

even

the short span of freedom

was enough

to make the escape

worthwhile.

the spread wings

across the miles

of central park,

of the city below.

what joy

it must have felt,

no longer caged,

no longer

a curiosity

perched in trees

below the net.

the long life shortened

by its own

reflection,

tumbling, tumbling

to 5th avenue

and death.

for the best online therapy, click here

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that offers solving

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marital discord, children

run amok,

work related issues

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narcissistic boss?

we got that.

sign here, and insert your

credit card number, age,

and general location.

special rates still apply

for those incarcerated, or

seniors on their last leg

stuck in a nursing home

rarely visited by ungrateful

children.

just click the button to zoom

and talk to our friendly

and newly

minted therapists who

just got their certificates

from Freud Academy

in the Bronx.

all of our therapists have had

an extensive six

week course and have visited

Belleview's fifth floor

as an observer or as a patient

at one time or another.

we will gently talk you off the ledge

and never push.

no judgement here. 

no problem is too small for us.

we aim to help you in thirty days,

or you'll receive a partial

refund based on a prorated

set of complex rules

found in the small print,

read by pushing the tiny

icon on the third page

of the document you just 

electronically signed.

please be dressed properly

for your sessions

and be respectful.

we're here to help you,

and by the way,

our therapy sessions are always

without medications, until

absolutely necessary.

they don't seem that worried

do they

ponder the existence of God,

as we do

time to time, praying

madly when

things are going poorly,

sitting at

a traffic light,

low on gas

and needing desperately

to use a

bathroom.

does that bird flying

overhead

spend even

a nano second thinking

about creation,

the beginning of

time,

the big bang theory,

or evolution?

probably not, they have

work to do,

families to raise,

worms to dig up.

how nice it would be

to be a bluejay

swimming in the sky.

the crime wave

there's a crime

wave

going on in the back yard.

the bird 

feeder 

is the 1st national bank,

it appears.

squirrels

and chipmunks,

raccoons

with their masks on.

birds of every feather

are out there,

banging

on the tin roof, swinging

the box

back and forth

spilling the gold of seed.

are they like us?

sort of.

depends on where

you grew up,

i suppose.

thank you for asking

the mumbo

jumbo

of the woke left

and the

religious right are full

of words

and phrases like.

it is what is,

i'm sorry for your loss.

transparency

and vulnerability.

just saying, is one,

truth to power is another.

i know, right?

whatever that means.

it's like a contagious

bug going

around.

in one ear, and out 

the other,

or falling mindlessly

from the mouth.

thank you for asking

peace, out.

finding a win

sometimes

all goes well, and you've

made the perfect

cup of coffee.

you've selected

good beans, grinded

them into

granules. just

the right amount,

then the hot water

poured,

some sweetener

and a splash of cream

dropped in.

voila.

the first sip is a win.

sometimes

you luck out in life,

even with coffee

on a cold 

February morning.

becoming a nude male model

i pick up a part time

job

at the community college

as a nude

male model

for an art class.

they needed a middle age

white man

with no hair

and big feet to pose

for them.

although i fibbed about 

the middle age part.

if that was true,

i'd live to be one hundred

and forty,

give or take a year or two.

i find out later that it's

an abstract art

class, ala Pablo Picasso, 

which is a fortunate thing,

because now

there are no true replications

of me.

sometimes they ask

me to stand on my head,

or to put an apple

in my mouth.

or to bend my arms

and legs in crazy ways.

everyone tries not to

laugh, but i can hear them

snickering behind

their easels.

it's very uncomfortable later

when i see the students

in the cafeteria

having coffee after class.

perfecting my craft

have i mastered

anything

in this life? sure i can throw

up a dozen

rolls of wallpaper,

disguising the seams,

lather up

a few gallons of paint

on walls

and ceilings in

the blink

of an eye.

and yet, am i a European

craftsman at it?

hell no,

but i get the job done 

just the same.

having been raised

by wolves

i floundered around

for most of my

youth trying to find a way

to make money

and survive,

and landed on this.

so what am i good at?

really good at?

sarcasm, maybe.

and a few rambling lines.

sans pickle

i see in the obits,

the thin

back page of the metro section,

of the weak

and weightless

newspaper,

that Chip has died.

an old not quite friend.

suddenly it says.

the word suddenly stands out,

which makes me wonder

was it a fall,

an accident of sorts,

a car crash,

a drowning, was it his

heart giving in,

with all those steps

in his house,

and his daily

routine of a triple layered

ham sandwich,

on his homemade

sourdough panini?

sans pickle.

the three day stone age

it's a nice

break, a sweet repose,

a rest

of sorts

when the power goes down

and nothing

works.

we're off the grid with

no electricity.

we're back to the stone age,

with clubs

and fire,

stream water,

and the loin cloth we

wore

yesterday

getting dirtier

and hotter.

we mark time with chalk,

and draw

circles in the dirt,

amusing ourselves

with

nothing but our own 

voices

and banging on an empty

tin of pretzels.

an ordinary day

it's an ordinary day,

forty degrees, no wind, 

a parcel

of yellow

sun

breaking through

a sifted cloud

of flour.

nothing new.

just another day in a string

of winter days

playing out

its hand for you.

her night visit

the old

black cat is at the door again,

peering into

the glass.

her green eyes are like

distant stars.

i see her,

and she sees me on

the far couch.

there is no need for her

to ask.

i pour out a saucer

of cream

and set it on the porch

for her.

she gives me a polite

meow,

takes a lick or two, then

leaves, but we

both know, that she'll

be back.

he suddenly woke up

my very leftist

and woke,

but lifelong friend, Brandon,

who is now a vegan,

marches religiously

with the women

on pro choice days

down at the mall.

he wears a pink

head band,

and the t-shirt with

Joan of Arc

on the front.

he throws copies of Tom Sawyer

into the bonfire

and helps push

over statues of Abe Lincoln.

he believes in twelve genders,

separate bathrooms

for all,

and swears

that crime is down,

the economy is

good.

he's all for an open border

and lying

in the street to protest

big oil, or the Israeli war.

it's getting harder

and harder

to be friends with him,

and him

with me, as i cut into

another piece

of charred, but

medium rare meat.

happiness is a milkshake

at half time, i told

the boy,

tonight

we're making milkshakes.

his eyes got wide

and a smile

came across his face,

like the sun rising on a beach,

while his mother

shook her

head darkly

and nibbled on a celery

stalk,

a square of cheese.

i took out the carton

of whole milk,

then a half gallon

of double chocolate

ice cream

and two large mugs.

carefully i showed him

how to dip

out the scoops, 

and then pour the milk,

just so,

so that it wouldn't overflow,

then squirted on

the whipped cream,

bringing it to a pyramid

type cone,

before placing a cherry on top.

for crunch i added

a sprinkling of nuts.

i let him poke in the straw,

and the long spoons,

then we went

downstairs, carefully,

to watch the second half

of the football game.

congress is in session, so what

the left watches

one news channel while the right

watches another.

they read

different papers, each

supporting their own

twisted version

of news.

there is no middle ground

anymore.

no common sense, just

the blabbering

of words,

the puffing of egos,

with nothing getting

done to make our life

better,

only worse.

before all of this

was it better

in 1960, before Kennedy

was shot?

was it better

before the riots, before

the war,

before

the world was turned

on its head.

before the moon walk?

i think so.

but there are fewer

and fewer

left of us

to remember those good

times.

the unlocked doors,

the long

walk at night through

the majestic

park.

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.