the debate rules and restrictions

the debate is scheduled.

but with rules

and restrictions.

no asking about the border,

or ethnicity,

or previous unfulfilled

promises

like lowering crime

and taxes.

no laughing, no making

fun of,

no pointing fingers,

or saying anything that's

not nice and might hurt

the other person's feelings.

things like,

so you say

mister know it all,

or your mamma

in retaliation.

no going off on tangents to

talk about 

Venn diagrams or yellow

school buses,

or golf.

no chewing gum, or using

notes, or having a lifeline

nearby to call when you get

stuck on a question like

how did you

get your first job?

answers will be kept to ten

concise

words or less,

using the English language,

speaking

in the accent

you grew up with.

your local and national alert system

i get a weather warning

on my phone.

tornados nearby,

the scratchy honk goes

on and on.

take cover.

then a beep for a flood

watch,

then a missing

kid alert,

a lunatic has escaped

from the asylum

alert,

lock your doors.

high winds is the next alert,

a rabid dog

is lurking about

on Main Street.

the beeping

won't stop.

it wasn't that long ago

when

i used to get all of these

messages and alerts

in one phone call from

my mom.

curbing your weirdness

you have

to be careful these days

with being,

too nice, too friendly,

saying hello

to everyone,

and looking at them in the eyes

as you pass by.

you have to curb your

congeniality

a little.

because people will think

you're weird.

which

is true of course,

but why confirm things?

back to nature

no matter

how many times you wander

into the woods

for solace

and a different perspective

on humanity,

you have

to come out the other

side at some point.

your back to nature respite

is over and

that wave

of tranquility

quickly dissipates as

you see that once

more your car has been

broken into

and your phone,

your wallet,

and bag

of Oreos are all gone.

finish your plate

my mother

was always worried that we

might choke

on our food.

on chicken bones,

or something.

slow down, she'd say.

don't talk with your mouth

full.

get your elbows off the table,

and

use your napkin

not the sleeve of

your shirt.

did anyone here say grace?

stop kicking your sister,

and hey,

you already

had two porkchops,

leave one for your little

brother.

eat some bread,

put some butter on it.

there's more

milk in the fridge.

come on finish your plate,

those lima beans won't kill you.

people are starving in,

we know mom,

India.

it was exhausting.

a brief mirage

behind

the joy and sportsmanship,

there's cheating

and lying,

deception,

complaining and whining.

objections.

protests

and denials,

mistakes

and triumphs.

there's congeniality

too,

and love, or something

like love.

the swords

have been stowed away 

for a short while.

the races

are run, the jumps made,

the laps

completed.

the prizes have all been

given out.

it truly is the world

at large.

a mirror of sorts.

a brief,

but needed mirage.

the rock collector

the girl.

no more than four,

shows

me her rock collection

as i paint

the walls

of her room.

pink of course.

her mother calls out to her

and says

leave that man

alone,

and let him work.

but the girl shakes her

head and

whispers no.

one by one she pulls out

a green rock

from her silken bag,

a blue one,

a red rock, a crystal,

and a common ordinary

stone.

she tells me that she

loves rocks.

i tell her, with a tear

in my eye,

smiling.

i know.

how about a few days off

suffering,

of course, is necessary.

why

else would we get on our knees

and pray

for forgiveness

and 

redemption, salvation,

and to put

our cares and worries

at ease.

we need to suffer. we need

pain.

we need

to once again turn over

that new leaf

and start again.

we need to look through

that glass

darkly,

but sometimes, enough

is enough.

and you need a break

a relief

from the mystery.

stuck in the space station

i hear

one astronaut, who's staring out

the window

at earth,

sigh, and say,

i hate this stupid tin can

we're stuck in for

another eight months.

who's running this mickey

mouse

space station?

i'm sick of tang,

and peanut butter crackers.

peeing

and doing number two

in a tube.

yes, we have zero gravity,

but zero

privacy too.

i haven't had

sex

in over a year,

not even by myself.

i can hardly sleep with all

this beeping

going on.

and the place stinks.

there's not a window to be

opened,

and the trash is piling up

by the door.

i'm tired, i'm cranky.

and if someone asks me

one more time

if i'm okay,

i'm putting a crimp

in their oxygen hose,

then putting on my space suit

and going out alone.

a big bowl of popcorn and a stiff drink

popcorn sales

are sky rocketing 

as everyone prepares

for the big debate.

the margarita blenders

are churning,

getting ready for 

the drinking games.

at last we'll hear the candidates

speak

and not hide behind

the noisy

engines and blades of

helicopters.

trucks and planes.

they are sifting through

their thesaurus now,

looking for new words

to string together.

new metaphors

to make a vague point

even vaguer.

they are being schooled

by children half

their age,

the teams using flashcards

to help them

with history and financial

things.

biology and policy when it

comes to

those other countries,

over there, you know, those

other countries.

i can't think of their names.

as the world turns

my friend Kamil

at the bank,

who works the drive-thru

window,

with his turban and amazing

white mustache

that twirls

past his cheeks,

informs me

about the cd rates.

five percent, he says.

you need to come in.

he's wearing

a new tie and a new shirt.

i think he's in

love.

there's a glow about him.

and then

i see Tina, the clerk

at the desk

from Pakistan

come up behind him,

with a plate of cookies.

she smiles,

and touches his arm.

ah ha.

fourth place is still good

i like the almost.

the underdog,

the ones finishing fourth

with no

medal or wreathe,

or flowers.

the seventh

bridesmaid,

the last one picked,

the usher holding the door.

the ones

who almost

made it but didn't.

the runt of the litter,

dropping into obscurity

once more.

the weatherman was right

the weatherman

was right

this time, as the house swirls

high above the ground

in a violent

wind.

i look out the window

at all the things

passing by.

there goes a cow,

a cat,

a dog,

an old friend.

trucks and cars,

and there she is on her

bike,

spinning madly

cackling,

wreaking havoc

with her dark green skin.

come on baby, you can do it

men like to talk

to machinery,

especially their cars.

they say

things like,

come on baby,

you can do it, come on,

as they turn the key

and pump

the gas.

tapping their hand

on the dashboard

while rocking in the seat.

there you go sugar.

i knew you could do it.

there you go.

you're a sweet girl.

yes you are,

i'm going to put premium

into you today,

and give you a

wash and wax

when we get home.

the sentiment is the same

i still have your Christmas card,

the one i signed

yours truly,

no longer using the words

love, or

affectionately yours.

it's lying next to the one

you sent to me, but

it's in the top

drawer

where i keep my stapler

and rubber bands.

a book of stamps,

coupons to the Container Store.

did i forget to send it?

no.

it just never made it from

the desk to the blue

box on the corner.

i wonder if the stamp is

still good, maybe next year

you'll get it

the second time around.

the sentiment will remain

the same, i'm sure.

thirty-nine miles later

it's raining.

there's traffic.

there's

the slow crawl of impatient

drivers.

there's the wipers,

the fog,

the ac on,

the stop and go of it all.

the racket of horns.

i take route

seven from Leesburg,

twenty miles down to gallows,

then on to

236,

to prosperity,

a left on Olley lane,

to Braddock

to Rolling road

then left at last on to

old Keene mill.

only four more miles

to go.

three lights and a left

at Tiverton,

then a right at Orono.,

an open spot,

unbelievable,

home sweet home.

he looked very Canadian, i thought

my grandmother

liked to argue,

she was what people used

to call a pistol.

she liked to take the other side

of everything,

whether politics

or religion.

she was the kind of person

that would

try to order lamb

at a roadside diner.

she loved

Canada

where she grew up and when

i mentioned once

that i thought Lorne Greene

from Bonanza,

looked Canadian,

she said, what do you mean

by that?

why would you say something

like that?

i was only eleven,

but she was somehow

offended by my

benign observation.

the dusk to dawn drive-in

sometimes

we'd actually watch the movie

at the drive-in.

we weren't always

making out in the back seat

steaming

up the windows.

our bodies contorted

like Houdini in a water

box.

of course we'd have

a shrimp roll from the stand,

some popcorn,

maybe a hot dog,

and some fries, with a large

coke.

all of which we'd throw

the remains out

the window

before we left.

leaving the trash on the gravel hills.

but sometimes

we'd actually watch the movie.

all three,

in fact, but rarely

all six

from dusk to dawn.

never making it to the Swedish

films

of topless women

playing volleyball.

the end of summer

i see the neighbor

packing his car for the end of summer

beach trip

with his family.

in go the coolers,

and boogie boards,

the bikes

on the back.

the towels and suitcases.

the pillows,

the books

the snacks.

oh, how i remember it well.

the long road

to the eastern shore,

the six days

and seven nights in a

beach front

hotel.

bringing back the salt

and sand of it all.

our skin toasted brown.

snap shots in the phone.

saltwater taffy and

a netted bag of white 

and pink shells.

body enhancements

she told

me over morning coffee that she

was thinking

about getting

enhancements.

huh? i said, flipping

through the sports page

of the morning news.

i think

i'd be happier with bigger

breasts,

not Dolly Parton

sized, but you know,

maybe a third that size.

something like

a small cantaloupe.

i see women in the locker

room

and most of them

have had 

some work done.

wouldn't you like that?

i look up from the paper,

and shrug,

sure, i guess so.

but maybe get one done,

and see how that works

out for a while.

the festive funeral for Bob

the hall

was packed with friends

and family,

acquaintances,

the music was loud

and festive,

the videos played

on the wall,

pictures were set out.

flowers

and speeches made.

it was a joyous occasion,

this funeral

not for a Roman God,

but Bob,

now Robert,

and then someone

came up

to me

and said, you know,

i never really liked him

that much,

he was kind of

a snob,

a little on the cold side.

colder now,

i surmised.

Amelia's Earring

her lost diamond

earring has become Amelia

Earhart's plane.

no one can find it.

i've tossed

the house,

turned over the mattress,

looked

in the trash,

searched the rooms, 

crawled on my hands

and knees

across the rugs

with a flashlight.

every time she comes over

we search again.

we cover every inch of the

house

she's been in, but

with no luck.

it's a mystery

that will never be solved

and i never

bring up the possibility

of my hoover

vacuum dog.

perusing the farmer's market on a Saturday morning

the only

thing i've ever bought from a 

farmer's market

is a Bear Claw

pastry

and a cup of coffee.

i walk through

and admire the tomatoes,

though,

the peaches and apples,

the stalks of

celery,

beans and home made

cider,

but 

nothing strikes my fancy.

the tri-colored corn

is interesting,

so are the sausage links

hanging in a tent

manned

by Jimmy

in a butcher's apron,

from Front Royal, but i

don't buy any.

i'm pretty much here

for the Bear Claw

and to watch

people

mysteriously buy kale.

getting out of homework

as the sirens

sounded

we'd crawl under our desks

with our books

and lunch boxes

waiting for the all clear,

and then

the teacher, Mrs. Salvatore,

would

release

us to run home to our

parents

who hopefully weren't

burnt up

and vibrating

with radiation.

we'd look up into 

the sky

searching for that mushroom

cloud,

our ears waiting to

hear the boom.

it was exhilarating

in a way,

and exciting that we might

not have to

do our homework

for a while.

and then the movie came out

the book

was really good, i read it twice,

even

underlined

paragraphs

that i liked.

circled ingenious

sentences.

i wore the cover off,

broke

the binding.

i loaned it out.

i got it back and put

it on the top

shelf.

and then the movie

came out

and ruined everything.

does Nicholas Cage

have to be

in every movie?

the war chest

how do they

keep

these wars going

for so long.

do they ever run out of bombs

and drones,

bullets

and missiles?

do they ever go to the war

chest

and say, oops,

we only have three of each

left.

go to the basement

and get the sling shots out

from the big box

marked

medieval,

then sharpen

the bayonets.

i almost don't care

politicians

have worn out their welcome.

it's gone on

too long.

the commercials,

the lies,

the hyperbole.

speech

after boring speech,

rallies,

and word

salads.

i have tears in my eyes.

we're done with it.

just get

it over with

and rip the Band-Aid off.

i almost

don't care

anymore

who wins or loses

at this point, almost,

i said, but

not quite.

the lamp of moonlight

i wouldn't call it insomnia

exactly.

it was more

of an occasional

inability

to fall asleep.

whether it was the lamp 

of moonlight

cutting through

the blinds,

or the person

beside me,

dreaming and moving her

legs,

or the dog, too close

and hot.

or the work tomorrow

or the work

from yesterday.

it wasn't even

money, or age keeping

me up

like it used to do.

i wouldn't call it insomnia

at all,

just a temporary

situation of not sleeping,

a rare delay.

the small harvest

in the late summer,

the last

visit to the shore, to the beach,

and my

father.

he'd have a paper bag

full of string

beans and tomatoes,

peppers,

ready to go.

he'd been growing things

since he was a boy

in Halifax

Nova Scotia,

and now the small squared

yard, fenced

off, to keep the rabbits

at out, kept his green thumb

going.

should have slept in that day

it was raining that day.

dark and dreary.

the day

we went down to get the marriage

license.

it was cold.

windy.

i was hungry,

tired.

she seemed determined though,

needing

a place

to live and money to live

off of

since her married

boyfriend

went back to the wife,

and cut off her

cash flow.

where else was there to go?

i couldn't see

the sticker stuck to the back

of my clothes,

saying sucker.

i think it was fifty bucks

at the little

metal window, where

we both signed the agreement,

and an old woman

named Alma,

stamped 

the piece of paper, and said

good luck

in a foreboding

tone.

that's one sad orange

i pretty much

know

i'll never eat that single orange

sitting on

the shelf

in the refrigerator.

it's bright face

stares back at me every

morning

i open the door and

get cream for coffee.

i've taken it out

several times

and placed it by

the knife drawer.

i've even

taken it to work

several times.

it's traveled miles away

from home

and then put back

on the shelf

when i get home again.

i just can't find the moment,

or have

the right alignment

of taste buds

to cut it into quarters

and eat it.

but i can't throw it away

either.

lacking locquaciousness

doctors are the worst

at explaining

anything.

they do a lot of nodding,

grunting,

typing,

writing things down,

but it's almost

like they aren't there.

they poke around a lot,

take blood,

measure you

for height and weight,

blood pressure

and a variety of other things.

then

they send you the test

results

a few days later,

but never follow up

to discuss what they mean.

that's totally up to you

now, 

to go home and research

the numbers

when you

log onto WebMD.

the magnifying glass

men need

their garage, their basement

or attic

with a work bench

and a good light,

a chair.

they need to escape into

the minutiae

of a hobby of some

sort.

woodworking, old clocks,

perhaps something

that might fly.

they need to get away

from work,

from the kids,

from the wife,

from the weeds in the yard.

they need to hunch over

something

with a magnifying glass

and carefully

try to make their life

right.

the enormous puzzle

i have no patience

for jigsaw

puzzles, ten thousand pieces

scattered

on the table,

each looking exactly

the same

in color and shape.

blue, white, green.

when put together

appearing to be a skyline,

with a mountain

lake.

i sit there and stare at

the table,

scratching

my brain,

pondering, it's pretty much

how i look

at every waking day.

this weather we're having

we rarely say

what we mean, it's better

that way

at times.

to swallow

the words

to keep the peace,

to keep

the friendship going.

why bother,

why argue, why make

your case

as to who's wrong,

who's right.

we move on

and keep it light.

how about this weather

we're having?

when the heart expands

where

do all these toys go?

these dolls

and soldiers,

superhero figures,

bikes

and skates,

jacks and colored chalk.

jump ropes.

where

do they go when

the hands

get too big for them.

when the limbs grow

and the heart

expands,

and love

becomes the most

important

goal.

where do the toys go?

the website designer

i tell her

how long i've been working,

which makes

her laugh,

i haven't even been

on earth that long.

you get used to it,

i tell her.

but if you want my advice,

save your money,

be careful with love,

love can ruin everything.

eat well, sleep well,

and look both

ways before crossing.

and you,

young woman,

what advice do you have

for me?

any tips from the new age?

and then

tell me about this new

website you're

designing for me.

the thirty-two foot ladder

i envisioned retirement

as something

different.

something soft and easy.

a rest home

somewhere on the eastern

shore.

first floor of course,

the ocean a short walk away.

the pool

nearby, new friends playing

cards and drinking.

i never thought i'd be on

this roof,

having climbed

the thirty-two foot ladder

with a bucket of paint

and brush again.

but oh, how i like the view.

leaving nothing on the table

sometimes

we limp into the room.

slow afoot,

exhausted

by the day.

we grab

a chair to hold onto,

the edge

of the table, then

fall

into the sofa.

the sun and blue sky

mocks us.

come out and play, they

say,

come get some fun.

come sweat,

come throw the ball

and run.

come on, get up,

get going.

there's four more hours

in this day.

you're not dead yet.

the clearing

i take a saw

out into the back yard

and start

sawing

the branches of tall bushes.

or are they potential

trees.

maybe they're weeds, 

i don't know.

i should look it up, but

they've outgrown

their welcome,

sagging over the fence.

almost as tall

as the second story window

of my house.

wide and gangly,

but green.

it doesn't take too long

to cut them down

and clear them out

of the yard,

it's strangely satisfying,

but now when i look

out the window

i miss them.

don't drink the water

it's challenging,

diving into the Seine for a swim

event.

the judges

wait for debris and

things

to float by before shooting

off the gun.

one of the swimmers

yells out,

wait wait, what's that?

pointing at what

could be the small

body of a dog,

or pig,

dead and floating,

but he's speaking in Japanese

so he's ignored.

the gun goes off

as he covers his mouth

and nose

and dives in.

medals after all are

everything.

ping pong

i end up

watching an hour of ping pong

on tv.

it's the Olympics,

so you're a loser

if you don't watch it.

it's a Chinese dude and a young

man from

Finland.

they are drenched

in sweat

and look anxious and tired

in their struggle

to the death.

the world seems to be on

hold until this ends.

it's a wild match.

back and forth with furious

volleys. 

the mad clicking

of the paddles against

the ball.

the screaming from

the crowd.

it's actually kind of amazing

how fast they are.

the reflexes.

it's the not

the ping pong

we played

with our friends in

the basement

while we drank beer,

hardly getting the ball

over the sagging net,

with the ball flying

off the table,

and the dog running off with it.

you know what you want

i decide

quickly on the lasagna.

i don't even

look at the menu.

it's all i

ever get.

she tells me that every time

we sit down

in a restaurant.

why don't you try

something different

for once,

she says.

so i change the order,

to todays

fish.

i hate it and end up

eating

off of her plate,

which is lasagna,

of course.

another shovel full of snapshots

what are we

preserving with all these

pictures

stuck

forever in our phones.

documenting

what we eat,

what we wear, where we are

on any given day.

there's me,

there's you, there's Saturday.

we wake

up

and snap another

as if fame and fortune

is one

more click away.

content of character

they can't stop

talking about the race

thing.

it never ends this talk

of the color

of one's skin.

black, white, mixed,

why is it so

important

to so many people?

will it ever end?

it's impossible to 

understand

why it's continually

brought up

and deemed important,

again and again.

didn't someone once say

something about

the content 

of one's character and not

the color of one's skin?

oh right,

they did away with him.

the bank teller

the bank teller,

a young

girl from Siberia tells me

through the garbled

drive thru

speaker

that cd rates are 5 percent

for five months,

with a minimum 

deposit of twenty-five

thousand dollars.

thanks, i tell her.

she gives me a wide

country smile.

her face is pale

as if it's never seen the sun

and

she has blue

eyes that somehow

remind me of cold

snowy fields,

places

i've never been.

i tell her i'll think about it.

you do it anyway

you marry

the wrong girl.

the one you secretly hate,

the one that truly

doesn't appeal to you.

you know it, she knows,

everyone knows it,

but you

go ahead and do it anyway.

you know there

will be hell

to pay.

but you do it anyway.

you give her the ring,

you say, i do,

then spend your life

desperately

trying to get out of it

before it kills you.

slick as a seal

i believe in aerodynamics.

the more

smooth

and slick you are from top

to bottom

the faster you are

whether swimming

or running.

there is no resistance,

as you sprint down the track

or dive into the water.

if i was a runner, or a swimmer

which i'm not, i'd shave every

hair follicle off my body,

tape down my ears,

and cover myself in oil,

becoming slick

as a seal.

i'd wear a skin tight suit made

of silk, making

me extra fast.

and if i never won a medal,

maybe i'd get style points,

at least i'd have that.

when the bolt won't budge

sometimes, no matter how hard

you try to unscrew

a bolt

off of some piece of machinery,

it won't budge.

all the muscle

and curse words

in you

have no shot at unloosening it.

you get the hammer out,

the chisel,

the wrenches.

the rarely used blow torch.

but it's not happening.

so you buy a new lawnmower

for your ten by ten

patch of yard.

life insurance

i suspected

that i was on her hit list

when

she invited the insurance salesman

over for dinner,

one night,

bringing along

his briefcase

holding a fresh

copy of a million dollar

policy,

insuring my life.

i became very

very

suspicious that she was

up to something,

maybe secretly

trying to poison me

despite being

my lovely lovely wife.

from then on i let the dog

taste everything

that was on my plate,

or lick clean

with his eager long tongue,

my fork and knife.

the other side of the family

i don't hear

from

the other side

of the family these days,

not a word.

not a call,

or text,

sisters or brothers.

pretty much nothing

since my

mother died.

it's silence

from the

Maryland side.

i imagine

they're eating crabs

this time

of year

at Robertson's

crab house,

down the road off Indian

head highway.

drinking beer and wine

under sunny skies,

good times.

bobo the pet monkey

it was probably

a bad idea

getting a monkey for a pet.

the constant

shrieking

and swinging from

the chandelier.

the biting and fleas.,

his wanton

lust for bananas.

i suggested

a goldfish.

but she insisted

on bobo.

i was young and in love,

wanting to please

her,

so foolishly

bending to her desires.

a lesson i learned

early on,

and yet repeatedly

did it again

and again, always with

regret.

what will you do after the war?

so what will you do after

the war?

i ask the young man burying

a land mine

in a school yard.

what do you mean? he says.

there is no after,

no before,

we are always at war with them.

they hate us,

we hate them.

it is bad blood for centuries.

but what if the bombing stopped,

what if the killing,

and the slaughter

ended?

what if one side stopped

and said enough?

no, he says,

that would make meaningless

of all the ones that

have died before.

what will they have they died

for if there is

no more killing, no more revenge,

no more war?

but what if, what if it ended.

what would you do with your life?

i don't know, he says,

sharpening his bayonet.

i like to cook,

maybe i would make bread,

i love to bake bread,

maybe i would

have a small cafe

and serve wine.

people could come and read

books and talk.

all day and all night.

maybe we could laugh

and talk about our children.

that would be nice.

sometimes we talk

she sends

me a video of a cat,

i send her

one of a dog.

there's a bird on the sill

i send

her that.

she sends

a picture of the rabbit

in her yard.

i hear the mailman

and take

a picture of him.

his mustache is interesting.

she resends me

a picture

of a rainbow that a

friend took

on some island.

dinner is coming soon,

so i show her

the chicken on

the counter, she sends me

a snapshot

of an apple,

then some celery stalks.

then a video about

cholesterol

and heart attacks.

i send her one that says

the opposite of that.

sometimes

at the end of day,

we might talk.

more flip flops than Wal-Mart

it's amazing

how politicians say one thing

for years,

for decades,

they've run on these issues,

and then,

suddenly,

they say, nope, didn't say

that.

you had me wrong.

i never ever believed

in that.

i was never against fracking,

i closed the border,

i lowered

crime

and never released prisoners

before they did

their time.

i never said defund the police,

or was hesitant

on supporting Israel.

i never suggested raising taxes.

how dare you

even suggest that?

i'm on everybody's side now.

not just the woke

and transgenders.

wasn't the opening of the Olympics

just wonderful?

but we have it on record,

on tape,

on video, in the newspapers.

is this another flip flopping

joke?

oh fiddle dee dee.

come on, come on.

let's move on, ok?

and talk about the passage

of time.

and how we can all become

unburdened

by what has been

burdening us.

let's roll up our sleeves,

put on our pant suits 

and get

down to work. we have

a country, sort of, to save.

how did we survive back then?

remember the snows

we used

to get when we were young.

two or

three feet deep,

drifts

up to the door.

it was before the plows

came through.

the schools were closed.

how did we survive.

we were down to 

to drinking tap water

and licking

the lids of peanut

butter jars.

we had to unfreeze

the frozen meat

frozen for years,

frosted over in the ice box

and open

up all the cans 

of tuna and spam.

the cereal boxes were empty.

no cookies

no chips,

no pop tarts for the toaster.

we ran out of milk and

bread,

eggs and Pepsi.

we were down to eating

old candy

from Halloween

mostly Mary Janes

gone rock hard.

we did things with crackers

and jelly

we had never

done before.

how did we survive?

it was the hardest two

and a half days

of our young lives.

the Japanese Maple

i see the man

in his madras shorts 

and flip flops

watering his yard

before it gets

too hot.

his white belly hangs

over his belt,

and he's smoking a cigar.

slowly

he walks around

extending the long hose

to water

the roses,

the Japanese maple,

the bright green

grass.

i imagine

that he was young once

and none

of this mattered.

life is short.

there's no danger here

you need

stagnation, a dry bone

desert

of day

and time.

an arid place, full of

cacti

and Ghalia monsters,

rattlesnakes

roaming

around.

danger curled in every

rock

made shadow.

you need the long

stretch

of a Georgia Okeefe

sky.

ribbons of pink

and blue,

brown mountains

with threatening clouds.

this all inclusive

beach resort

with palm trees swaying

won't do.

the candy jar by the door

a candy

jar

by the door, where i

set my keys

and wallet down,

next to my sunglasses

and a book

of poems

by Mark Strand,

that i might read later,

is trouble.

having the willpower

of a small

child

i can't help but take

a handful

for my pocket,

then fill it up later

when

i get home.

temptations lie

everywhere

if you allow it.

if i had a car like that

if i had a car like that,

i'd ponder

at the age of ten or eleven

walking

the cold

streets throwing newspapers

onto porches

that lined

my route.

if i had a car like that, how

wonderful that would

be,

and then

it became if i had a girlfriend

like her,

so amazing, so lean,

so pretty,

or a house like the house

like the one

up there on the hill

surrounded by willow trees,

how wonderful

and complete life would be,

and then

one day you have it,

but realize that all of it

means nothing,

if you're still unhappy.

Safeway has Fish

i used to fish.

i used to take my son fishing.

i had the whole

thing

going on,

a tackle box,

a knife,

rods and reels, 

sinkers and bobbers,

hooks

and lines.

blood worms in a box.

for hours

i'd stand at the shoreline

and cast

out over and over again,

until a big fat

catfish or carp, or God forbid

an eel

would take a bite.

and then it hit me.

i don't like fishing.

i don't like cutting up worms

or taking

the hook out of

frenetic fish's mouth.

my shoes would be soggy,

i'd be sunburned and

hungry.

i felt bad for the fish too,

so easily

tricked into biting down

on what they

thought was fish food.

the noisy crickets

i am

annoyed by the printers

announcement

that

it's out of ink or paper.

why can't you

get it yourself

i want to scream out.

the phone with

its data usage

warnings.

the gas light in my car.

the oil light.

the sign on my door

telling me

again that the trash

can't be put out before

sundown.

my dentist,

telling me to floss more,

my 

broker telling

me to save more,

or to buy and sell.

the latest stock. my doctor

telling me to lose

weight,

and stop smoking and drinking

so much.

i need just one person,

one thing

in my life, that says

nothing, they just tell you

politely,

how about a nap?

how dare you have an opinion

i can't read

your so called poetry anymore,

she tells me

in the comment section.

you should stick

to fun stuff,

personal observations,

and stay away from politics.

you are obviously

a  bad person

with your conservative leanings.

how dare you express your

opinions,

and mock and make fun

of people.

it's not funny mister.

so just to let you know,

i'm not a follower anymore.

and i'm only

occasionally going to read

your posts.

i hope others don't quit

too out of protest for

your personal beliefs,

and not so funny jabs

at Kamla. that happy go lucky

genius of an orator.

who is this, i write back?

there's probably a name for this

i over think 

just about everything

in my life.

what i ear, drank.

where i'm going, where

i've been.

what i should wear

how to spend money

or who to visit.

my brain sometimes is like

a monkey

in a banana tree,

hopping from one branch

to another.

undecided or questioning

everything

that is me.

there's probably

a name for this in 

the latest DSM,

but why go there?

the near heart attack

as the nurse

applies these sticky suction

cups

all over my chest

and stomach, she says, i

remember you.

i look at her

and shake my head.

it was seven years ago.

i start to get nervous.

was she

someone i dated, met in

a bar or on some online

dating site.

did we over drink

our martinis and end up

in the parking lot

outside the Pottery Barn

in the back

of her car?

you don't remember, do you?

she says.

sorry, i tell her, but i don't.

i was kind of binge dating

back then.

well you had this same

cardiogram seven years

ago and i filled out your chart.

whew. i say.

you almost gave me a heart

attack.

a call from the beyond

i see there's a message

on my

land line

voice mail.

who leaves messages anymore?

what cave man

or woman

does that? salesmen

and scammers.

no text?

only my mother would call

that line.

but she's long

gone.

and if it's her i best listen

to it.

the cha ching of commerce

it's a hundred

days

before Halloween and yet

the candy is out,

the plastic skeletons,

the spider webs

and masks

are on the shelf.

Christmas can't be far

behind,

can it?

as we lie on the beach

in late July

with a St. Patty's Day

stout.

why not make all the seasons

year round?

beating up women at the Olympics

while the man

posing to be a woman beats

the tar

out of the

woman

in the boxing ring,

the world

spins further out of control.

further and further

sick,

further and further

woke.

Mike Tyson should put

on a wig

and teach

the young man a lesson

about

beating up women.

Door Dash

her kitchen

was well equipped,

the Viking stove,

the subzero fridge,

the cupboards stocked with

every

ingredient one could ever

need.

the spices

all lined up on a rack.

the pots

and pans gleaming, hanging

from the ceiling on

hooks.

the blenders, the processors,

the coffee makers,

the double oven,

the warming rack,

the pristine

microwave.

a shelf of cookbooks.

everything looked perfectly

new.

and would stay that way

forever

as we once more called out

for Chinese food.

survival love

i'm reminded

of Paraguay when i look out

the window

at the green

mist rising

from the water and the woods.

i can almost

feel her

lips against mine,

her body too

as we lie in the tent

on the hillside.

it was survival love

in a strange land,

each needing

each other to survive.

not the always the best kind.

abnormal

i get the blood

work

back.

everything seems to be in the normal

range,

but not

the EKG,

which says

abnormal. which is exactly

what it was

seven years

ago

when going under the knife

so i can

breathe again.

i want to know

more,

but i'm afraid to ask.

please have the defibrillator near by.

thank you.

i know you are but what am I?

i haven't seen this much

acrimony

and anger, accusations and

name calling

since i was in court

getting divorced

from the second wife.

but unlike political campaigns

there is no judge

to calm you down

and settle the claims.

no matter who you're voting for

pretty much nothing

will change your mind.

so let's vote today

and be done with it.

i know you are but what

am i?

rock paper scissors glue,

what bounces off of me

sticks to you.

sigh.

waiting for the end

maybe it's the weather,

the heat,

the humidity, the fires

out west,

the wars

even farther.

maybe the sun is inching

closer and closer

to us.

maybe there's nothing to

be done,

but to coat ourselves

in coconut butter,

and drink

pina coladas

while waiting for the end.

lunch awaits

as

the needle finds

a vein

and the blood

streams

out into the vial

you stare

off into space

thinking of blue

lakes.

white sand.

and then it's over.

they wrap

the wound,

you stand, lunch

awaits.

what could have been

on her knees,

in the garden, she'd lose

herself,

then find herself.

she'd reimagine what life

would have been

if this

if that.

by late afternoon, after

digging and planting,

pulling weeds,

she was done

with it all, and ready to

settle on

what was

and not what could

have been.

new sports at the Olympics

they keep

adding more sports to the Olympics.

i was watching

the other

day

when three countries

i've never heard of

were lined

up blowing bubbles

into the air.

the one that made the biggest

and the roundest

bubbles,

that floated the longest

before breaking would move

on to the semi-finals.

in the semi-finals

smoke rings

from a Cuban cigar

would be measured for 

shape and density.

a single cough would cause

immediate

elimination

and a trip to Guantanamo Bay.

the final round involved

big wads

of chewing gum 

from a eucalyptus tree

where each

athlete would

blow bubbles from

their mouth.

popping them only after

the judges

timed them and

checked them out.

i married the opposite

the wife once

told me, the ex-wife, number two,

that her friend

Mary

buys all of her husbands

clothes.

everything from

underwear

to socks,

to hats and gloves, to suits

and shoes.

she takes

care of him.

and she has dinner every

night at six o'clock.

she does all

the laundry, takes care

of the kids,

and cleans the house.

she has sex on

demand as well with him.

which is usually on

Saturday night.

my wife was telling me

all of this while 

lying on a massage table

in the living room,

getting the kinks out

from someone named Carlos.

the maids worked

around them,

as the doorbell rang

with a pizza delivery.

collecting dust

how many

more electronic devices

can i store inside this closet?

old and

unused for years.

how many more

phones

and monitors, hard drives,

and chargers

can i find room for?

how much electric wire can

i place inside this box,

wound up like lassos?

how many broken printers,

answering machines,

stereos and

speakers, televisions,

DVD players,

cameras and stereos

can i stack up

and push deep into 

this closet to forever

collect dust?

once necessities of life,

now junk.

too many choices

we have

too many choices

these days.

try

to buy tile for a floor

sometime,

or carpet,

or curtains,

or faucets.

try to buy anything

these days.

there are too many

variations

to choose from.

even finding love has become

harder

than it used

to be.

the matador with red shorts

somehow

a large bee of some sort gets in

the house.

i duck under

his buzzing wings,

just barely

getting out of the way

before he stings.

it's matador

time

with him.

i find a pair of silky

red underwear

that Betty got me

last valentine's day,

and 

the battle begins.

i swing

the shorts around, dodging

his attack. 

he digs in and snorts,

then flies by 

my ear

then circles back.

around the house we go.

he's not used

to this.

he's tiring, but still

not slow.

finally

i get the window open,

and swing my shorts at

him.

then out he goes.

take it up with Him

the man

next door has a beautiful

yard.

the grass,

well, the fake grass is the greenest

grass i've ever

seen.

it's basically

outdoor carpet that looks

like the golf greens

at Congressional Country

Club.

he's out there now with

a vacuum.

tidying up.

blowing away leaves.

i can't imagine

what he thinks about

my yard and the mess

it's in.

oh well.

i let nature take its course.

God is my gardener,

take it up

with Him.

a mild spending spree

i go on a mild

spending

spree at the market.

i buy two pears

instead of one.

three apples,

instead of the whole bag.

i'm cutting

coupons

and saving pennies.

so maybe i'll just buy

a pint

of milk

on this trip,

maybe bologna

instead of steak,

tuna instead of Chilean

sea bass

or lobsters.

crab cakes too

can wait.

i'm going cheap on

everything,

until after the election,

and things

get back to normal,

everything that is expect

for chocolate

cake.

chicken in five miles

it used

to be that the billboards

on the side 

of the road

told

you where to eat.

you'd be in the car

for ten minutes

heading to the beach

and you'd see

the first sign.

a giant painting of an entire

family happily eating

chicken legs.

five miles ahead,

Dave's Fried Chicken.

then

three miles,

the same sign,

then two, then one,

then you're here.

pull in.

we didn't have cell phones

back then,

so we were totally

dependent on these large

giant signs

instructing us on the best

stops to eat

chicken, or pancakes,

or Salisbury steaks,

or to get an

ice-cream treat.

but sometimes you just

had to use

the bathroom.

a long day in the woods

as a kid

when you went walking 

through the woods, exploring,

you couldn't help

but pick things up

and throw them.

rocks,

sticks, 

discarded beer cans.

you couldn't help but poke

things

on the side of the path.

snakes,

and dead birds.

frogs

and turtles. maybe you'd

try to push

over a small dead

tree with the help of your

friend, Max,

or try to imitate birds

chirping loudly.

you might even have

taken your

shoes off and gone wading

in the stream,

or find an abandoned

refrigerator

and get in,

but thankfully you're parents

weren't around you

back then

to stop you from doing

all these fun things.

the Ozempic ceremonies

it's fancy

because

it's French, it's colorful

and extravagant,

but why

is that man painted

blue

not wearing any pants?

it's hard to tell

who's a girl

and who's a boy,

but i guess that's the point.

and why

are they mocking

the Last Supper?

with an enormous half

dressed

woman posing as Jesus?

is this some kind of joke,

both dumb

and cruel?

it's sad

that this is where we

are now.

has everyone been eating

mad cow?

the political coffee clutch

it's an ugly

street fight up at the local

coffee shop.

it's a big circle of seniors

discussing

politics after playing

pickleball.

how can you possibly

vote for a

felon, Betty says,

and Jerome replies,

well at least

i don't want to kill babies

like that woman does.

and why do you hate

Jews, Mildred yells out.

to Buster, who

says, i don't hate Jews,

my lawyer

is a Jew, so is

my accountant

and my physician.

well, what about the war,

Mildred says, standing up

to brush scone

crumbs off her flowered

dress.

i think we should end the war.

enough is enough.

oh yeah,

and what about the massacre

and the hostages,

we can't take that lying

down, ya know.

i can't vote for the crazy

woman, Joe says,

the one that laughs

all the time. she wants

to defund

the police

and raise taxes.

she's more woke than

a fourteen year

old girl with blue hair.

oh, that's nothing says Ingrid,

that orange man

is a dictator, plus he slept

with a porn star and

he wants to close the border

and reduce

crime. and make everyone

have an ID

in order to vote, can you believe

the audacity of that?

well, so what, Aretha says,

that woman slept her way to the top.

she's dumb

as a rock.

how come we never have

an Asian

president, what's up with that?

Sally says.

or a Mexican?

maybe someone from Finland.

at this point everyone is

exhausted and in

need of a nap.

see you tomorrow they all

say to each other,

hugging and shaking

hands.

ten a.m. right?

yes. rain or shine.

right after pickleball.

in the arms of someone like you

i want

to care more about 

many things

that the world

deems

important. but i can't.

i can't even fake

it anymore.

i can't muster

an ounce

of enthusiasm for most

of it.

i'll give it all a cursory

glance

or two,

to be able to make small

talk

when i have to, but that's

about it.

i'd rather

spend my time,

with my head in a book

or my body

in the arms of someone

like you.

the night shift

you get used

to the noise first, then the smell

of the factory.

but it's a job.

your only fear

besides losing

a hand

is not having that paycheck

at the end

of two weeks.

it's not war, but it feels

like combat

of some sort.

in the trenches with like

minded men

and women

on the night shift.

it's the welding,

torches ablaze,

machinery

in heat needing grease.

the clang

of metal.

pipes and wrenches that

you'll hear

when the sun rises

and at last you sleep.

it's the mindless grind of it all.

the grunt,

the pull and tug of the factory wheel.

but you don't complain,

you say

nothing, you're at peace

with your hammer,

and the sandwich

that you brought to 

to work

in a bag

may be the best thing

you've ever eaten.

covered in lilacs

she liked

scented candles,

she loved scented candles,

and those plug in things

full of a liquid

concoction 

that would send

perfume all

through the house.

i smelled like

lilacs

when i left the next morning.

people in line

behind me at the store

would sniff at my

clothes, and smile,

and tell me how

wonderful i smelled.

thank you,

it's lilac, i'd tell them,

then hold out my arm

to their curious

noses.

i think the scale is off

i think

the scale is wrong.

i only

ate popcorn

yesterday,

and an orange,

and a sandwich,

and

a glass of milk, 

with four Oreo cookies,

well,

two glasses of milk

with chocolate

syrup stirred in.

how could i possibly

gain

three pounds

while i was sleeping?

there will be a cost

it's the only

religion

the world can bash without

consequences.

the others

are off limits

unless you want 

death and destruction

from bullets

and bomb

blasts.

but Christianity is fair

game to freely mock

and be made

fun of,

to openly despise

and ridicule

the savior of the world,

death

on the cross,

but in the end, every

knee shall

bow.

there will be a cost.

almost, but not quite

i feel sad

for those in fourth place.

those not

on the podium,

but in the showers

crying.

they get nothing.

the first gets gold,

of course,

then silver,

then bronze, but

nothing

for the fourth.

he or she goes home

empty handed,

despite being

a thousandth of a second

short.

taking scissors to it

it's a tight

knot i struggle with,

biting

down

onto the string.

carefully

pulling at each end,

trying to loosen

what has

tightened

and become hard.

sometimes you

have no choice but

to find

the scissors and start

all over again.

seven dogs walking

seven dogs,

all different breeds,

different

kinds,

and one man walk by

down

the boulevard.

seven

leashes,

seven collars, seven

minds

and his,

heading towards

the park.

they seem to listen

though,

as if one

mind.

he's in control of this,

with a word,

or pull,

at least this,

if nothing else in

his life.

a life on the shelf

his shelves,

full of carved animals,

wolves

and bears.

ducks,

meticulously created,

with his hands

and tools,

then painted,

each

had a story, a long

story

to which he was glad

to share.

his wife would

leave the room

when he'd begin again,

while you

sat and listened.

the bagel store under new management

are they

under new management?

i wonder

as i take a bite

of the oversized bagel

with cream cheese.

it's a loaf

of mushy bread now.

still circular

with the hole in the middle,

but a bakery

pillow of some kind.

and the cream cheese

is too silky

and wet.

the butter on yours

could be margarine,

a sticky drippy mess.

the sesame seeds are

falling off

like dandruff on a used

car salesman.

and the coffee.

how can it be cold and

bitter

before we leave

the store?

we have to get back to

New York soon.

the sooner the better.

the train will be faster,

let's go,

all aboard.

the fifty-three year old GE furnace

when

my air conditioning unit

and furnace

finally died

after

cranking out heat

and cold for over

five decades,

with hardly a cough,

the man from the repair company

took out

his camera,

put his hand on his heart

and took pictures.

i think there

was a tear in his eye,

that ran down

into his beard.

he looked at me and sighed

and said.

they don't make them

like they used to

brother. she's dead this time.

then he gave me a hug

as we both cried.

it's good to be home

the divorced

woman

gives up 

on her single life,

and moves back in with

the ex-husband,

the one with the house and

the money.

she knows

where the treasure

is buried.

it's good to be home.

he's happy

too,

as he lies in bed above

her, dying slowly,

but

all is well once more.

and now

she waits.

she tapped me out a melon

i see the woman

tapping

on the large stack of melons

at the store.

going from one green

striped melon

to another,

knocking against

the husk with her knuckles.

she seems

to know what she's doing,

so i ask her

to tap one

out for me.

so she does, and i thank her.

then i follow her

around the store.

next to the tomatoes,

to the apples

and oranges,

the breads,

and finally to the meat.

where she picks me

out a nice cut of roast beef

for tonights dinner.

i miss hearing from you

it's a private

number,

a restricted number, an unknown

number,

but i answer it just

the same

because i miss hearing

from you.

i miss

the darkness of

your deep breathing,

your silence

is deafening,

as usual and tells me

everything there is to know

about you.

past and present.

but i'm glad that you called

again, it's been a

pleasure. i enjoyed

catching up.

please,

call again,

soon.

just water please

cold

water will do the trick.

will

quench my thirst

on this

warm

day in July.

just water, please.

an ice

cold glass

of clear water.

tap water is fine

if you have it.

no need for

sparkling water,

or well water

or spring water,

or water from the melted

snow of the Andes.

spare me the electrolytes,

the fruit

flavors,

the lemons

and limes, the squeezed

berries.

just water please,

no added

vitamins

or magic potions,

just water.

is it possible

that i can have that,

and only that?

men in dresses and spring board diving

i try

to connect the pink dots.

men

dressed like women

and

the Olympics.

the world

wide every four

year sporting event

featuring

the best

and most

trained skilled

and blessed

athletes in the world.

just how

does a man

in a dress,

dancing the can can

connect to any of this?

a night at the opera

the opera

doesn't really

appeal to me.

the language barrier

and over acting,

is hard

to hear

and see.

other than

Isabel Leonard

i have little

or no interest in that particular

musical art

form.

but if she's in town,

tickets

for the front row,

please.

sticking a leg out the door

much to my neighbors

dismay, i tend

to measure the heat

or cold

of the day by sticking my bare

leg out

the front door.

turning it this way

and that,

seeing if there's

rain or wind.

is today

a day for an umbrella

or a hat?

an overcoat,

or shorts, or a bright

red speedo

perhaps?

yesterdays coffee

i dreamed

she was angry with me.

angry

for again

pouring out the cold

coffee

from yesterdays cup

into the bathroom

sink.

it left a brown stain,

a wide ring

on the white

porcelain,

to which she would not

attend to,

but leave for me.

it was just a dream,

but when

i woke up,

immediately i went

in and scoured

the sink.

the significance of the passage of time

after she puts

sleepy Joe to bed

tucking him in with a bowl

of ice-cream,

and her little

yellow toy school bus,

she tells him not to worry,

i got this Joey, she says,

then

the DEI candidate begins

her speech

by saying that there is

significance

to the passage of time,

time as we all know

passes by,

and there is significance

in that,

but she gets stuck there

like a bald tire

in the snow, going around

and around.

she says it a few more times.

rearranging the words,

laughing

and rolling her eyes.

time has significance,

she says,

as it passes. we all know 

that right?

we all know

how time works, right?

it passes.

you can't get it back.

there is great significance

in that.

she throws her arms into

the air and laughs again,

cackling at the sky.

let's not be burdened

or unburdened by

the passage of time, okay?

it's important that we do that

she concludes

to mild but befuddled

applause.

dear anonymous

another timid note

appears

on the door, 

another

pale email,

another text

from someone

who wants to remain

unknown.

a critique,

a review,

the phone call from

a private

number,

the stranger in a mask

at the door.

interesting

how people either

want

to be anonymous or

known,

safety, i guess,

comes

in the previous form.

meeting Trixie for a drink

she took the bus

to where we met

and was carrying a small

suitcase

at the end of

her long skinny arm.

when

she told me her name was Trixie,

i checked

my back

pocket to see if my

wallet was still there.

her lipstick

seemed to be permanently

smeared.

but she had great eyes,

green like a cat

and skin.

milky white. not a single

piercing

or tattoo

was anywhere

that i could see.

a tiara sat on top of her head.

something inside of me

though,

told me,

it probably wouldn't last.

a different kind of love

it's not romantic

love,

but still, it's love in

some form

that you have for the tree.

the large

oak

that's been there forever,

carved

with names

and hearts,

and holding swings,

providing

you shade

in the summer.

it's not love, exactly,

but when

they come with their

saws

and ropes to take it

down.

something akin to tears

falls from

your eyes. but it's not

love.

no, it's not, but it's close.

quirky town delray

the new owners

of the building

on main street

have

painted over the orange paint

on the trim

and doors.

they've gone with green

now.

lime green

as opposed to Florida

orange.

it's that kind

of small town though.

one that has

a charter banning

nuclear weapons.

every year they have a small

parade

of dogs and cats,

the mayor smokes weed,

and they coronate

a queen

not a king.

from sea to shining sea

people

break up over politics.

they get

angry,

and mean.

they disown you.

they call

you names, they shake

their heads

at you

as if you've gone

insane.

God forbid

if you disagree.

what a glorious time

we're living

in,

lacking one iota

of common sense

from sea to shining sea.

home was hard

school was

easy.

it's home that was hard.

school

had the playground,

your friends,

lunch,

books,

a map of the world

on the wall

and the girl in front

of you,

who gave you a smile.

school

was easy.

home was hard.

which contractor to use

the first

electrician wants four thousand

dollars

to repair

and replace the circuit

breaker panel.

the overload

in the kitchen

makes the power go out

when the maid

comes with her

powerful vacuums

and machinery.

plugging in

every gizmo she brings.

the second electrician,

charges

two hundred dollars,

half of that being the

service call

fee.

it's an easy call to make,

one not normally

seen.

no worries, it'll rain again

sometimes

you sit

and drop the bucket

down

into the well.

but there's no water,

no words

or new thoughts

to pull up.

there's just

the hollow

thud of the metal

can

hitting

mud

and rocks, gravel.

but no worries.

it'll rain again.

sorry to see you go

the beauty of getting

older

is that you say what you want,

regardless

of whom it bothers.

you stop

censoring how you really

feel. you

stop walking on

eggshells.

like an ice

cold shower

it's refreshing, invigorating

and awakening

to see who squirms,

who leaves,

who no longer is your

friend,

who leaves the room.

the playground

when

you see happy children

skipping,

laughing, having fun

on the playground,

as your son

and as you once did

so long

ago.

flying high into the sky

on the swings

as parents cheer

them on.

you nod and think, okay.

okay, this is what

we have to

get back to.

one bag of groceries

i stare

at the small bag of groceries.

seventy-seven

dollars

and change.

i can pick it up

with one finger.

lettuce,

meat, eggs, milk.

the basics.

did i get everything

i need?

no, not exactly, but

i'll be back tomorrow

and again

the next day,

hoping things have

changed.

lemon cake into the night

when i see

her coming up the street

with

a sheet cake

in her hands.

i get out the milk.

two glasses,

two forks

and a plate.

it used

to be martinis all

night

and music.

and now it's lemon

cake,

with a scoop of vanilla

ice cream.

but yes,

we were wild once.

we were young and

crazy

and we danced

and made

love

long into the night.

now here's the knife,

you cut.

whispering love into her ear

i remember

whispering into my mother's ear

as she lay

in hospice

for six months, 

being fed

with eye droppers

like a small bird,

unable to speak, 

and now

with bed sores.

i told her to let go.

to let go.

it's okay, mom,

i said,

really, we're all good

here. your children

are fine.

all seven of them.

it's time, it's time.

feel free to let go.

return to sender

as the sea

pulls

away from the sand

i find

things.

shells and bones

dead

things, alive things.

even the bottle

you threw into the ocean

with a message

to me

long ago,

but i'm sorry, i write

back,

i can't save you anymore

and with a mighty

heave i

toss the bottle out

into the ocean,

far far away

from the shore.

starting over again

the world

hasn't changed, it's just that

the old

and wise

have died

and left

what's left to the young

to figure out

and decide.

it's starting all over again

with each

new generation.

with 

each peach fuzzed

child

blowing sideways

in the wind.

who to vote for

it's a tough

choice.

law and order,

the real estate salesman,

the felon, or

the laughing lady with

a crazed look

in her eye.

who slept her way to the top

of the political heap.

who's right,

who's wrong?

maybe neither is the answer.

just abstain

and throw your hat

into the wind.

where have all the real

leaders gone?

as that once great philosopher

Rodney,

once said.

can't we all just get along?

Captain Ralph's Crab House

it's eighty dollars.

for

four crab

cakes,

browned balls

that look

like wax.

two ears of corn

and two little dixie

cups stuffed with

sugary coleslaw.

but the crab cakes

are hard,

still slightly frozen.

microwaved,

perhaps.

they're mushy and full

of undefinable

things

from the sea

and land too.

can we have our

money back, please

we ask the matey who

brings us

ice tea. no, he says,

and 

Captain Ralph

says no too, so

shove off sailor,

and leave.

just add water

just add

water, the recipe says.

i like that.

simple

and easy.

i can do that.

i have

that skill.

i know how to turn

on the water

and measure

with

a cup.

but hot or cold?

to unburden what has been burdened?

have we ever

had

a laughing president?

a president

with a high-pitched cackle,

not unlike

a hyena in the field

munching

on a carcass.

someone

who laughs at anything,

at any time, without

a reason?

someone who

talks

in circles,

tossing inedible

salads

into the air.

have we ever had someone

like that

in the white house,

sitting

in the oval office,

who seems

completely unhinged?

probably,

but this could be

different, this could

be fun

for all

if she wins.

intelligent design

when you stand

at the base

of an enormous building.

glass and steel,

an amazing feat of engineering,

do you believe

that it just appeared

out of nowhere.

that time went by, and

there it was?

never. instead

we believe

that someone, someone

brilliant

created it. it came

to be by intelligent

design.

and yet the bird in the sky,

or fish

in the sea,

or you or me,

we tend to think otherwise.

or is this it?

does the short order cook

tire

of the eggs, the bacon

and pancakes.

does he

make a face

when the bell rings

for another order

of hash browns

and onion

rings.

wiping away

the grease on his apron

as he slices

strawberries onto waffles?

does he lie in bed at

night

and hear the crackle

of the skillet,

the breaking

of shells? the grinding

of a coffee

machine?

does he dream of stars

one day

from Michelin?

or is this it?

lessons learned

the scar

on my finger is a lesson

from

fire

in the early years

of childhood.

the scar

on my face, a half

star

is from

a cut

i received, a lesson

learned

from

running in the dark.

and well,

the heart,

that's

another story altogether.

but i know where everything is

the desk

is in

disarray. papers

are scattered

and tilted

over

in heaps.

stacks of magazines.

books with

pages

dog eared. 

bills and notes.

letters

received, letters

and cards

unsent.

receipts and recipes.

a list

of things to do.

a calendar.

a photograph.

i'd open a window,

but i'm afraid

of the wind.

flag burning

strange

to see the plunder

of cities,

statues defaced,

American flags burning in the street,

the fire

surrounded

by masked

protesters, dancing

madly,

praising the terrorists

of another

country.

it's crazy what we

see.

where are the soldiers,

the police?

ambivalence is defeat.

a recipe passed down

i've never

had a dish to brag about.

no family

recipe

handed down by my mother,

or aunts

or grandparents.

i have no cake,

no stew,

no pasta dish to give 

to you,

for which i can say,

there you go,

it's a secret,

so don't bother asking

how i made it.

but i am

able to heat

things up

in the microwave,

pop a cork and pour

a glass

of wine for you.

the truth in black and white

for whatever

reason

the black and white photo 

is better.

more stark,

more revealing, more true.

there are no

colors

to persuade you otherwise.

no longer

are you distracted

by the green

grass, or the blue sky.

the trees

in bloom.

forget the indigo lake

in distance.

no. in black and white

you see the look

in her eyes

and what must end soon.

the pickle ball league

if i hear

the words pickle ball

one more

time, i'll scream.

you should play pickle ball

she says.

i love pickle ball.

you'd be good at it.

you'll have fun

and meet new people.

i'm in two leagues.

we play five times a week.

come on

it's easy. it's fun.

it'll be your new thing.

no one gets hurt.

no one sweats.

you hardly have to move,

you just stand there

like a statue and

stick out 

your arm

then let the ball hit

your racket.

it's like badminton, but

not quite as hard.

come on. let's go have

some fun.

what you remember

for some reason

i remember

her elbow

at the corner of her long

arm.

sharp

and narrow. a hard

turn of softness.

a pointed

bone.

funny how things stick

in your head

when you

find yourself

alone.

more more more

we can't help ourselves.

our eyes

watch,

our ears hear.

we absorb the world

at large.

we need, we want,

we need a new

car to drive.

we're hypnotized.

we are never satisfied,

each day

brings the same questions

around

each morning, what to

eat, to drink,

what to wear,

what to buy.

we do nothing

in other countries

if you burn

their flag, or desecrate their

statues

and monuments,

or scream racists

chants,

or death to all

who disagree

you see the firetrucks

with their hoses

going full

blast.

sweeping them down

the street.

maybe they should

add some tide detergent

and make it clean.

we're different here,

we let the deranged

children

live

and be free.

when it's time it's time

the aging

rock star,

the garage band,

with long

skinny white ponytails,

the athletes,

the actor,

the magician,

everyone is on tour

until the end of time.

and why not?

why not do what you

love until

they pull

the plug, but at some

point

a man has to know

his limitations

and get out.

don't throw your hat on the bed

do we have

nine lives, three acts,

a plethora

of second and third chances?

how many

bullets can

we dodge,

how many mistakes

can we make before they

throw dirt on

us and drive

the stake?

is it luck, destiny, God's

will or fate,

or none of that?

perhaps it's

something beyond understanding,

a mystery

until the day

you die.

i can live with that.

but to be safe, don't use

your bed

to rest your hat.

finding love at the dojo

my son took karate

lessons

when

he was five,

then six, all the ways

up to nine.

and then ten.

one day

my wife at the time

was leaving

the house

heading to the dojo

with her

hair done,

lipstick on,

and perfume. i'd never

seen her

look so good.

she said she too had

joined the program

to become

a black belt.

her white costume

was pristine.

was she wearing heels?

maybe.

a year

later we were divorced

and she was

with

the teacher,

Carlos, the Columbian.

but of course

that didn't work out

either.

childhood revisited

it's the freakish

heat

that makes people rush to the window

and look out

as if it's the end

of the world.

but it isn't.

i remember hotter days

than this,

in the small

rooms our home

on Chester Street,

the flat tar roof,

no air conditioning, 

the clunk

of a large fan

barely swinging to the left

and right.

providing a stingy

breath of warm air

upon our bare bodies.

how we laid

in bed

on those summer nights.

knowing no

other life

than this.

i don't think this is the end

of the world

at all

these days,

a hundred degrees

is nothing,

it's childhood revisited.

the bow tie men

the bow tie

rarely goes over well

unless

you're selling pop corn

working

in a carnival,

or a congressman

from

Nebraska.

or a Baptist

minister giving a sermon.

or maybe a professor

at a chalkboard

diagraming

quadratic equations.

but

most bow

tie wearers

are frowned upon as lesser

men.

silly men.

men who get snickered

at when

their backs are turned.

and yet,

they have wives

and girlfriends who never

seem to tell

them,

don't wear that,

here, put this on instead.

i'll tie it for you.

he's having trouble at home maybe

the man

in front of me, in a fit

of road

rage

gets out of his truck

and waves

an enormous wrench

at me.

i was slow

to step on the gas when

the light

turned green

three blocks

ago.

he wants to teach me

a lesson

i suppose.

i take his picture holding

the phone

up

as he screams.

finally he gives up

and drives away.

maybe

he's having a bad day,

i think.

the mannequins in the window

they're building

a new church

where the sex shop used to be.

tearing

down

the two-story building

tomorrow,

the one that sold

movies

and lingerie,

a variety of toys,

cages

and things.

the mannequins

in silk

and pastry greens

and pinks

are still there though.

the blank

stares on

their faces look out

to the road.

they've been there for

years

in the exact same pose.

through all the seasons,

dressed

in skimpy holiday clothes.

i see some people

waving farewell

to them as they drive by,

before the wrecking ball

swings through,

while others are happy

to see them

go.

deep throats

we love conspiracy theories.

we are a dog

with a bone

with them.

we just can't let go.

did we really land on the moon?

did Oswald

act alone.

has sleepy Joe

been asleep for longer than

we know?

and there's the little

green men,

UFO's.

who else was on the roof,

who held

the ladder?

around and around we go.

investigations,

books and movies,

interviews,

deep throats in garages,

and still we never know.

a drawer full of dull knives

i reach into the drawer

for the sharp knife,

not the dull

knives that have been in

there forever,

some for three wives.

i need a serrated

sharp knife to slice this

fat red tomato

i'm about to put on a

sandwich.

i need it to cut the onion

too and the peppers,

the lettuce. then

the toasted bread 

once i put it all together.

truly it's the only knife

i need in this drawer,

but how do you get rid

of the others?

running dangerously low on thin mints

a kid,

one of those medium

sized kids,

with curly red hair,

and a very clean white

shirt,

knocks at my door

asking

for a donation of some sort.

he's got

laminated paperwork

and is wearing

an ID

badge on his pocket.

i don't see his

mother and father

anywhere.

what? i say to him.

he starts going off on

a memorized

sales pitch, rolling his

marble like blue eyes around

as he rubs the sweat off

his freckled face.

i tell him to stop then

go get

a few bucks

out of the kitchen

drawer.

he looks at me

and says, mister,

don't you want to know what

i'm collecting for?

nah, i tell him.

as long as it's not for

Kamala

or the communist party.

he scurries off

as i yell at him going

down the street

to the next door. hey,

i say, hey, if you see that

little girl scout

when you're out and about,

tell her i'm running

low on thin mints.

finding an island

i completely

see the joy in becoming a recluse.

drama free.

the sanity

of aloneness.

the books

and tv,

the walks, and bike rides.

the occasional

visit from Annie

across the prairie will

be fine.

i like this field, this haystack,

this old red barn.

i like

the chickens

and the cows.

out here in the wilderness.

i like the quiet

of the sun

rising and falling,

and the hard work needed

to live on this

oasis, on 

this old great farm.

i was his queen, she told me

a week or two

after she tells me that she's found

the love

of her life,

the one true

man she's been

searching for,

she shows up on my

porch

crying.

didn't work out? i ask her

while i yank out

a cork from a bottle of pinot

noir.

no, she sobs.

i can't believe it.

he treated me

like a queen, i felt

like i was the wife

of a king.

i try not to bring up

Henry the eighth with her

and instead pour her

a large goblet

of wine, all the way

to the brim.

sediment and sentiment

there is evidence

of life

before, from long

ago, fossils buried

in the sediment

and sand,

embedded bones

in the stones.

even here,

beneath the bed,

or behind

a dresser,

buried deep within

a closet,

i find remains of you.

carbon dating for seniors

my friend

Jennifer told me about a new

senior dating

site

she joined,

called Carbon Dating.

each person

has to send in a little

piece of DNA

to correctly

nail down their age.

they mail in either a

strand of hair,

a fingernail,

or some spit

to have it analyzed at the lab.

occasionally an

archeologist

will pay a visit to examine

the new members

when there's serious

doubt

about the veracity of their profile.

everyone seems

to fudge a decade

or two when

they fill out their membership,

she says,

and this way,

you know for sure

what you're up against.