indecisive napping

it's too early

for a nap, but i try one just

the same.

i get the pillow

for the couch,

the blanket.

i turn the phone off

and lie down.

but i got nothing. 

i just lie there and toss

about.

left then right,

i stare at the ceiling

for a while.

i flip through the pages

of a book,

still not sleepy, so then

i reminisce about my

life which takes me down

a road i don't want

to think about.

i give up

and go for a walk.

maybe later

if you're around.

what's the name of that movie he was in?

i read

the child star's autobiography,

about how he

struggled in the early

years between

three and ten,

always

type cast as the cute

kid

with a funny laugh

and grin

and how

his tyrannical

parents

and manager

controlled his money,

gave him

a paltry allowance.

it's a cautionary

tale for

young thespians.

the therapy that he's gone

through,

from

the roles he's been in.

he promises

that now,

at the ripe old age

of eleven

to turn over a new leaf

and be

bolder with his choice

of movies,

tv shows, and commercials.

no one will force me

to do anything,

ever again, he says,

as someone helps him

with the seat belt in the back seat

of the limo,

strapping him in.

American Thespians

why is that

the foreign actors,

British, French or Indian,

or Asian,

don't seem

to be acting.

they are the part,

engrossed and lost

in the role

they are playing,

while American actors

are atrociously bad.

you can

see right through their

thin thespian skins.

there's no one there,

just a guy or a gal

reading lines

they've not quite memorized.

acting is just a job before

the adulation

and talk shows

begin.

they almost seem human at times

people

like to brag about how smart

their dogs

are.

how they know so many words,

they can

sing

and speak

in a dog like language.

they have

expressions

on their furry faces,

almost human

in fact.

they are

exactly like teenagers,

but lacking in social

skills, English

and math.

the enormous tree has fallen

it was a good

tree. now fallen.

the big oak in the middle

of the cul-de-sac.

swings

were attached,

ropes

and hammocks.

children

climbed its trunk

to the highest

branch.

lovers met beneath

its summer

shade.

hearts were carved

into the side.

promises

were made.

it was a lovely tree

in all seasons.

we'll miss it, and with it

the children

that have come and gone.

we'll remember it though

from our window,

its beauty,

as we approach our

own

last age.

Cruella plays the long game

the maid

tells me about her ex-husband,

the one

she's living with now

to get

the house

and money.

the will has been

rewritten

a half dozen times

as she comes and goes

in and out of his life.

tired of revision, he

writes the last one in pencil.

betrayal, forgiveness,

rinse and repeat

again and again.

the maid

whispers to me,

he has the big C, it not

good.

she his nurse now.

i nod.

it's a shame, it really is.

but i admire her

her patience and tenacity.
it's to be admired

with a big payday

up ahead.

the lone bottle of hot sauce

i stare at the lone

bottle

of Texas Pete hot sauce

on the fridge door

and try to remember

when i bought it.

how long

have i had that half

empty bottle?

how many wives ago

did i buy that?

how many decades ago

did i make

that purchase.

how many tacos ago?

i try to read the label

but it's worn off.

i can see a few numbers,

but nothing

conclusively.

the cap is stuck too,

so i run

it under hot water

and tap it against the

counter.

there we go.

back in business.

back to the shelf it goes.

more hot sauce to come.

the most respectful divorce ever

he told

me it was going to be the most

civil

and respectful divorce in

the history

of mankind.

wishful thinking,

after

the lawyers got involved,

and she

drained

the bank account

of cash,

the war was on.

i saw him yestereday

putting a flat

screen tv into his car,

and a Dyson vacuum

cleaner,

her favortie,

saying with fury,

she's not getting that.

where should we move after retirement?

planning where

to move

after retirement is not easy.

now you

have to figure out

which state

has the lowest tax rate,

the best

health care system,

the most affordable homes,

where there are

no floods

and hurricanes,

with no tornadoes,

or wildfires.

which state

has no earthquakes

or Tsunamis?

what city makes the best

hot pastrami

sandwiches,

apple martinis, or milk shakes.

and are they located 

in walking distance,

or by electric scooter

with accessible

ramps.

the slow crawl home

i knew

my mother was losing it

when

she began

the next part

of the conversation with

what she just

finished saying.

at first

it was annoying, and i'd

tell her

that she just

told me that.

but as the days and weeks

went by,

i got it.

i let her ramble and ramble

happy just

to hear her voice,

asking

if Sunay at five was good

for dinner.

and me saying

yes, of course it is

for the second or third time.

round table discussion in hell

the dead

tyrants, all burning in hell

for crimes

against humanity

are depressed

and

upset over all the attention one

maniacal

psychopath

with a little mustache

is getting.

what about us,

they scream and yell

at the round

table

discussion

in the pit of fire.

what about me, says Mussolini,

or me

chimes in Pol Pot,

or me,

says Idi Amin.

what are we chopped liver?

can't they throw our name

into the mix

with one of their campaign speeches?

why does that guy get all press?

hey,

yells Charles Manson,

shut up

before

i get angry, and could someone

please open

a window in here,

my hair is a mess.

there are no windows

says

Chairman Mao, now zip up

your dumpling mouth

before i stab

you with my spork.

done working for the man

i ask the thirty-five year old

kid

on the street,

with his hat on backwards

protesting

a variety of things,

from war

to gas and oil,

to the middle east

and trans rights,

not to mention capitalism.

i ask him what he's going

to be when

he grows up.

he laughs and shakes his

head as

he dodges a tear gas

cannister.

i'm thinking of doing my own

podcast,

he says.

i really don't want to waste

my English Lit degree

from Columbia.

and i think this might be

a good way

for me to educate

people.

show them who i really am.

do you know that some podcasters

make

a couple of hundred

thousands per year?

i'm done working for the man.

the drive-thru Liquor Store

as a kid

standing at the bus stop

for school,

dreading the day,

i'd watch

the cars line up

at the drive-thru liquor store.

teachers

and parents, construction

workers

and lawyers.

hookers and priests.

Mead's Liquor the bright

yellow sign

read

in bold fluorescent lights.

it was seven a.m.

and 

people were drinking on

the way

to work.

i tried to ignore what

all of this meant.

after the election is over

after the election

is finally

over,

i see the losing candidate

on late night tv

selling salad

dressings and croutons.

lettuce

and kale,

cucumbers and

cheese.

black olives,

and green.

she's found her way,

at last.

stirring up a big bowl

of salad,

with blue cheese and

thousand islands dressing,

pepper corn, and

oily vinaigrette,

mixing it all up 

with a big fork and spoon,

all with a cackling laugh.

low hanging fruit

i've done

my share of picking

the low

hanging fruit.

sometimes

i've even picked it up off

the ground.

so easier

than climbing,

than getting the ladder

out,

taking chances,

and risking

falling down.

the calming effect of you screaming

your anger

makes

me calm and reasonable

for some

strange reason,

the more you shout

and carry on

hysterically,

the more i lean back

in my chair

and relax.

my heart slows down,

my breathing

is easy.

i completely understand

now,

what do to next,

which is leaving.

the starter home

it's a starter home,

to go

with the starter

job,

the starter wife.

it's the practice round

before

real life

begins.

a year at most before

we move on

to bigger

and better things.

the Verizon man

the Verizon

man

is straight out of a Shakespearean

play.

a Falstaff

fellow with

a red

beard.

he's huge, and lumbering,

red faced

and full

of mirth.

there's a tool belt wrapped

around his

ample waist,

a bag of tools

in his enormous fist,

a box

of what's about to be

replaced

beneath his arm.

which are arms

not unlike legs.

i feel the necessity to feed him,

but i have

no turkey, no venison,

no beef on a femur bone,

no mince meat pies.

i have no ale,

this bottle of spring water

and bowl of nuts will

have to do.

i know better, but i do it anyway

i know better,

of course i do, but i

i do it anyway,

i eat

the last cold slice

of pizza

from the box

before bed.

i drink a cup of coffee.

have

dessert,

the remnants of a wedding

cake.

i make my way

up the stairs

then crawl between the sheets.

it's a long

night.

i hear

everything going on

outside

the window,

from the fox screaming

making violent

love,

the dogs

howling,

the tow truck taking away

cars

improperly parked. it's a long

night.

but the pizza

was divine,

as was the cake.

the two syllable rule of eating

if the label

has words on it that you've

never heard

of, or that you

can't pronounce,

it's probably a good

idea to not

eat it and

put it into your body.

which eliminates

nearly everything

in the grocery store

except meat and fruit,

milk, fish,

eggs and vegetables.

one or two syllables

seems

to be the way to go.

the suggestion box

the local

paint store has a wooden

box

on the counter

with a sign saying suggestions.

there's a pad

of paper

and pencil

with a string attached

to the box.

i write my suggestion.

donuts,

then

on another piece

of paper,

dancing girls

and happy hour.

a week goes by,

but they haven't listened.

fighting the law

tomorrow

i'll take the rake out

and 

sweep

the leaves

to the gate, then in armfuls

toss them

over the fence

into the woods.

it's against

the condo covenant

rules

to do such

a thing.

but i enjoy it

and hope they say

something.

turning heads

a pretty young

woman in a yellow dress

prances by

in the park.

every man,

young or very old,

looks, and turns their

head

to watch her

legs

and hips sway by.

no,

it's not over yet.

a train passing through

the train

blows a whistle

as it crosses

the trestle deep into the woods

over the dam.

it's a poignant 

sound,

a sweet reminder

that it might be time

to get out

of this town.

a cacophony of sound

it's an oil

change,

then a filter, then the tires,

then

the exhaust,

then

the wipers, then the engine

light that

won't go off.

it's a long day

at the dealership

waiting

in the lounge with two

tv's on,

and music raining down.

i miss

my horse.

banjo music down the street

when i hear

banjo

music

coming from down

the street,

i stop what i'm

doing,

squint my eyes

and look off into the distance

where the music

is coming from,

i say out loud

to no one,

is that banjo

music?

i don't start tapping

my foot,

or drumming

the counter.

i go to the window

and look

out.

i have a look of bewilderment

in my eyes,

like a dog does,

when

you tell them it's Tuesday

again.

we need to sit down and talk

we have

to talk are words that send

shivers

down my spine.

the boss,

the wife,

the girlfriend, the doctor.

the principal

at my son's school.

the woman

who does my taxes.

it's never

good news.

it's never you won

the lottery,

or we think

you're a fine person.

all is well.

it always goes 

the other way.

spare change to get around

a phone

call cost a dime

in

the booth.

ten too

for a coke in the machine.

a burger and a bag

of fries,

thirty-five.

a ticket to a matinee

a mere

half dollar.

gas cost 29 per gallon,

milk

and bread,

diapers.

i have no clue,

that was up to my

mother.

do you like pets?

i can hardly

understand the telemarketer

on the phone

selling windows,

she has a heavy Indian accent,

but i listen

just the same.

it's her job, so i give her

some time

to practice

her skills.

she asks me if i like pets,

which i hear as 

do i like sex.

i tell her yes. of course i do.

oh, that's nice,

she says, what kind?

i tell her, you know, just

the regular

kind, nothing crazy with

ropes and chains,

or whips. i'm pretty vanilla.

oh, you

chain your pussycat up to a tree

and hit her with

a whip?

what?

oh no, no, never.

although i had this,

girlfriend once,

a crazy flight attendant

from LA,

who probably would have liked

that.

so, she says, clearing her throat,

so how many windows and doors

do you have?

maybe you need a new roof, right?

ummm.

what?

what does this have to do 

with sex?

with her hand on a large carving knife

she keeps

telling me that she wants to carve

the turkey

this year

for the holiday.

huh?

i say. why? what are you even

talking about?

no.

i tell her. it's a man's job.

and plus

i don't trust you with

a knife.

how about you taking

charge of

the gravy?

maybe a pie?

let's pretend everything is okay

don't tell me about you.

let me

stop you before you get started.

say less.

let me

make it all

up in my mind.

let me pretend that you are

free from

trouble,

from drama.

that you've had

a good life.

don't tell me about the pain

and sorrow

you've suffered.

and i'll do the same.

mums the word.

let's pretend that we both

fell to earth,

once

angels, just

dropping by from heaven

the tipsy candidate

she seems to be

drunk

on stage, what is it, which

wine

is making her

scream and yell,

her eyes bulging

out with each new accent

she displays.

tossing up another word

salad.

pinot grigio,

or cabernet?

someone please help

her off stage,

and call quickly

double A.

another morning

days

seem to fly the older

you get.

it's

a book in a hard wind

turning

pages

faster than you can read

them.

before you know it,

it's

another morning

again.

lost in translation once more

it's a misunderstanding,

as texts

often are.

the smile, the smirk, the sarcasm

is lost

in translation.

ahhh, but

what could have been

if we had

actually talked

in person, face to face,

like they used

to do before

technology began.

home waiting for you

away for a few

days

is nice, but nicer still is to

return home

to the house waiting

for you.

everything left as it was

when you

closed the door

and the took the train

north.

there is the couch

with the pillows just so,

the vase

on the mantle.

the book on

the nightstand, earmarked

where you left off.

the window cracked to let

the fall air in.

the bed

made

and waiting, your

slippers 

resting near the door.

and now i don't care

it used to be the Cadillac

that made

a statement

about who

you were in life,

or the Mercedes,

they were statement cars.

you've arrived

they said,

gleaming in the sun

with a brilliant shine.

the Porsche

or the Lamborghini,

the Corvette Stingray.

one day, i used to say,

driving by in my rusting

Cheverolet,

choking blue smoke

out of the exhaust,

one day,

i'll make it mine.

but now, strangely,

this Honda is fine.

the other side

after some convincing,

we take

our shoes off to cross the shallow

stream

to get

to the other side

where

the path

runs

deeper into the woods.

the water

is colder

than expected.

she takes my hand as we

slip

and catch

each other, falling

onto the rocks and mud.

it's freezing

as the water rushes

over us.

we're soaked.

i'm laughing,

but she isn't.

it seemed like such a good

plan.

just push the mail through the slot

i politely

ask the new mail person

delivering

the mail,

Queen Latifa,

to kindly push the mail all the way

through

the slot, to not leave

it all hanging

in the door

where anyone can walk by

and steal it.

i know your job is hard,

and i appreciate

the work you do, but 

there are

checks, and credit card

statements,

tax documents,

letters from afar,

and important information

from social

security, etc.

all sticking out of the door.

she looks at me, turning her

radio

down and says, what's your

problem.

i show her with my hands

and arms

how to push

the mail through

the slot.

like this i tell her, play acting.

it's really not that hard,

you seem like a healthy strong

woman.

you can do this. it might

take you one extra second

to push it through.

she drops her bag

of letters to the ground

and balls up her fists.

you don't want to mess with

me mister.

now go on back into the house

before i

give you something worse

to whine about.

and don't you dare call

the post office and complain

about me.

i know where you live, she says,

pointing at my door.

you're lucky i don't just throw

your mail

in the yard.

Swanson's three piece tv dinner

was it chicken,

corn

and peas?

a blob of mashed

potatoes?

was it applesauce

and a biscuit?

it all looked real

and smelled edible

as we

pulled back

the tin covering

after 45 minutes in the oven,

at 350.

it was food for the bomb

shelter.

Armageddon food.

i can't count how many

times

i burned my tongue

and the roof of my mouth

on a Swanson

tv dinner,

when my mother was asleep

on the couch,

or out and about

playing bingo somewhere.

a plethora of dump trucks

my life

passes before my eyes

as the speeding dump

truck swerves into my lane

coming straight

for me.

he's texting,

or drinking, or eating his

lunch.

i don't know.

but i'm able to swerve

off into

the woods,

onto the gravel and dirt,

the bushes

and bramble.

miraculously still alive.

such is every day when driving

in Maryland

to Brandywine.

a day in the life of a candidate

what's next

on the list, the candidate

says to her

chief of staff.

well,

we have three churches to

go to,

Catholic, Baptist

and Presbyterian,

two malls

for some kabobs,

and a farmer's market

to please

the vegetarians,

then after

that,

you have to go work

at a pizza parlor

for an hour,

for the Italian vote,

then up to Harlem

to eat

ribs.

then over to Pennsylvania

to buy

an apple pie or two from

the Amish.

when we're done with that,

we're off

to Chinatown

for some crispy beef

and dumplings,

then down to NYC for a bagel

and a schmeer

of cream cheese,

can't forget the Jews.

here, drink some Pepto Bismol,

and put this

bib on,

you'll need that too.

what about the moon?

i go to the travel agency

to have a talk,

to ask them where i should go

on vacation

this year.

they ask me,

if i like beaches and warm

weather.

i nod, but tell them,

not as much as i used to.

well, what about Alaska,

maybe take a cruise,

see the polar bears and

icebergs.

ummm, not wild about cold

weather either,

maybe the Midwest, then?

ever been to Yellowstone?

or to the Grand Canyon?

nah, i've seen all of that on

tv.

Las Vegas, why don't you

go there, have some

fun, spend some money. 

go wild.

go wild?

i'm not like that anymore.

okay, then. what about overseas.

Rome, or France,

Germany?

ever been to Portugal?

do they speak English over there?

do they have Starbucks?

when they no longer need you

i'd see

him on the highway

at 8 in the morning,

stuck

in traffic like everyone else,

but he was

retired,

done with work

after 35 years

of service.

he no longer had to

be anywhere

on time,

and yet, he couldn't help

himself,

he had to keep

going,

pretending to have

a place

to go,

pretending to still be on

the ball,

not dying and old,

but needed.

he'd circle the beltway,

drive through

the city,

and then

return to his little home.

what about Viking?

it's always

the hardest part of the divorce,

after the bloodletting

of the money,

the house,

the custody

of children,

the furniture and friends.

once all that

is at last done, there's the dog

to deal with.

mine, or yours?

perhaps we can

agree to share him,

maybe every other weekend?

the drugs of youth

when you

no longer drink, or smoke

weed,

or

sniff glue,

or watch porn,

or eat

too much

of anything

you come to your senses.

you unplug

the video games,

the phone.

you're back

to how you were born.

new again.

enlightened,

no longer in the fog

of youth,

you pick up a book,

willing at last to grow wise,

to grow old.

who can possibly be undecided at this point?

i practice

on a large white sheet of paper.

i've made

two boxes

using a ruler

and a sharpie, black ink,

of course.

one for him,

one for her.

then i look

off into the distance,

and with a hand

on my chin,

i ponder as if i might be

one of the hopelessly lost

and confused,

the undecided,

then finally, 

after stretching out my arm,

i cast my vote.

putting an x in the middle

of the square

i've chosen.

i'm ready.

but i do it a few more times,

just to be sure.

did you hear what i heard?

it's a rumor,

at the moment,

a piece

of juicy gossip.

something we can

gnaw on

and whisper to one

another,

until the truth is known.

let's hope

it is.

that's always fun.

turn it towards the light

we need to water it,

feed it,

turn it towards the sunlight.

it needs

love

and attention.

keep it clean, keep it

holy.

hold on to its fading

beauty.

it's your body,

your life.

no one is coming

to save you.

away it goes

i'm in the middle

of writing,

but i stop.

the phone is ringing.

there's someone

at the door.

i hear the ding of the dryer.

a poem will

have to wait

to be written, half done,

but most

likely gone.

away it goes, like so much

in the stuffed

drawer.

the right death

it's obvious

that someone with money

has died

and left it all

to the nearest

of kin.

a new

addition

is being added on

to the already enormous

house.

there's a new car in the driveway

and a new

kitchen with granite

counters,

and a new couch.

tickets are bought for Rome.

the whole

family is going.

the right death can pay

off so many

loans.

indecision

it's a squirrel like

indecision,

do i chase the dropped

penny rolling

away

across the store floor,

or let it go,

i take a step towards

it,

then back.

i have made my decision.

i have more

pennies

at home

a barrel full, in fact.

the subway violinist

most of us

are subway violinists.

not

quite good enough

with our creative endeavors

for

Carnegie Hall,

but fine

for the subway

system,

the hollow tunnels

that run

beneath the city.

our hat is out

as we sit perched

on the crate.

we play with passion

as another train empties

and

the coins fall

and the bills float down.

we all fall a little bit short

of stardom,

but we play on.

running on empty

the joy

seems to be gone

from the candidate's

speeches.

like

air from a child's balloon

it has seeped

out.

the thin blush

of the pink

bubble floats

away, stuck in the first

tree it finds.

it's anger

and bitterness

from now on.

what is that that i hear?

crying?

if only i watched where i was walking

the piece

of gum i stepped on this morning

in the hot

sun

has been with

me all day.

an enormous melted

pink wad

fallen out of a kid's mouth.

like a suction cup my one

foot keeps

sticking,

lagging behind as i walk

around the park.

there's not a cloud in the sky.

if only

i'd watched where i was

walking,

life would be perfect again.

where are you?

i can't find

you

anymore. your number

is disconnected,

you've moved,

your e-mail is dead.

where are you?

i drive by the old house

and see the windows

boarded up,

the rosebushes dead.

no lights are on.

i get the feeling that you're

trying to tell me

something.

am i mistaken to think

that something's

wrong?

where have all the turkeys been?

the turkeys

have suddenly appeared in

the grocery

stores,

enormous frozen balls of flesh

colored meat.

vacuumed wrapped

and weighed.

filling the cold

bins

where chickens used to be.

who eats turkey

in July?

so where have they been all year?

perhaps

happy and content,

running in the fields,

the farms,

the prairies, oblivious

to the month

we're in. making plans

they'll never keep.

ignorance is truly bliss.

but a whole one

is crazy.

who needs twenty-three pounds

of turkey?

maybe just a wing and a drumstick

this holiday

and gravy, of course.

i wish his wife was home

her husband

is telling me something with his

handshake.

hard and firm,

and holding

on a little too long.

she's not

home.

but he'll show me around

and tell me

what work

needs to be done.

he's gruff.

tells me to wipe my feet,

no wait,

take your shoes off,

he says.

he's in control now.

he has a beard

which he continually pulls

at as he tries

to inhale

his stomach and puff out

his chest.

he yells at the dogs

as they bark

behind a closed door.

i wish his wife was home.

early shopping spree

i start my Christmas shopping

early.

but like

most years,

the first three or four nights

out at the mall,

or searching online,

i buy things for me.

it's a process.

i'm doing research,

getting ideas,

but why not a new laptop

for the other room.

maybe a new tv.

there's still time

for other people.

i have the wrapping paper

already,

somewhere

in a basement closet,

next to the snow globe,

the tinsel and the metal pan

for the tree.

as the band plays on

i love

Bob Dylan.

i have nearly everything

he's ever

sung,

expect maybe his Christmas

album.

a train wreck of sorts.

but i can't go

see him in concert

anymore,

where he croaks out

all the old songs,

now unrecognizable,

the beat

and rhythm changed,

the words

slurred

to the point where

you can't even sing along.

he's wearing

his top hat,

rebellious as ever, holding

a cane

and wearing

striped pants. a minstrel

man.

i love Bob Dylan,

but it all feels strange

and terribly wrong.

and then again, what else

is he to do,

stop and go home?

no.

he's determined to go on

and on and on.

the court jester

we expect

too much out of our leaders.

our kings

and queens,

our prime ministers

and presidents.

in reality they are as

dumb and clueless

as you and me.

heavy is the crown

they wear,

and who

they surround themselves

with,

whispering into

their ears.

listen instead to

the court jester, he and

he alone

is wise in

all things.

the anatomy of girls

we'd pick

sticks to see who would

go

and throw

a rock through the window

of the abandoned

house across the street.

the short stick,

would go.

camping in the yard

at night

turned us

into

something we didn't know

we were.

reckless kids

taking

risks in the dark.

one with a beer

stolen from home,

another with a cigarette

and a silver lighter that he

snapped all night long,

and the older one,

the boy with curly red hair,

telling us

in great detail

about the anatomy of girls.

the morning fire

from the hill,

looking out over the small 

factory town,

you can

see the lights, one by one,

going on.

like fireflies.

you can see the smoke

in the chimneys

for the morning fire.

perhaps coffee is made,

breakfast of some

sort served

at a small table as men

and women ready themselves 

for work,

the kids are up,

the dog is in the yard.

the rising sun begins to

light up the world.

it seems that no one

is different,

though each life is rare.

her husband's room

the widow

shows

me her husband's man cave

in the basement.

the pool table,

the tiki bar in the corner,

bottles and glasses

at the ready.

there's the piano over there,

a guitar

and microphone.

on the wall is a photo of

him,

he looks like Marvin Gaye,

he's that handsome,

that tall.

that graceful.

she begins to cry.

i tell her not to change a thing.

don't touch

a wall.

leave it this way for a while.

it's too early

alone at 67

i see and know

so many

older men, in their sixties

and beyond,

living alone.

widowers,

or divorced, by choice

or fate,

many just

never found a bride.

there is the profound

absence of children

or grandchildren far or

nearby.

are they happy?

are they content with this

life

they've carved out?

tv alone

with the dinner tray,

maybe a dog beside

them

on the couch.

each thing in it's place.

no compromises

to make.

no pillow talk after the lights

have gone out.

playing funeral

in the far corner

of the wide

suburban yard, at the edge

of the fence

beside

the shed,

the young boy carries

the box

to the hole

already dug.

the soft dirt lying on

the side.

it's a funeral,

one of many

more to come,

just a small

pet

this time.

but larger grief,

given time will

arrive.

i don't want to go home

the bar

is full, each stool has a soul

in place.

the room

is blue with smoke,

it's back

in those days.

there's a black and white tv

in the corner.

fat and low

with antennas sticking

out.

music is coming from somewhere.

south side johnny

and the Asbury dukes,

i don't want to go home

being sung in a raspy voice.

there's a bowl

of nuts every three feet

on the old

wood bar.

people are actually talking

to each other.

flirting,

making wild claims

of things

they've done,

or are about to do.

the best and the worst

in us arrives

with the third drink.

a fight breaks out,

hair gets pulled.

there's blood and commotion

but it passes.

numbers are written on

the backs of napkins

as the lights go up,

some stagger off into the night

driving home

alone

to lives

they were trying to avoid

for just a few

more hours.

we used to be friends, but now this

we've known each other

for forty years, but

we rarely talk

anymore

because of politics.

he's angry

and bitter and so far left 

he's almost

in China.

i lean

more right, but to the middle

of moderation.

it's not about the candidate

but the policies

i agree with.

why,

he says.

what happened to you,

i look at him

and say the same thing. maybe

after the election

we can

restore our friendship,

but it's doubtful.

that new car smell

the new car

smell

lingers. i should take the car

out once

in a while.

spin the tires around.

maybe take it

to the shore

and let the salt air in.

maybe eat

a burger

and a bag of fries

on the inside.

but no.

i like it this way.

still new.

still fresh and inviting.

like you.

popping the cork on the bubbly

i've had that expensive

bottle

of champagne

on top of the refrigerator for

seven years now.

sometimes i take

it down

and wipe

the grease off the green

glass and hold

it up to the light.

i'm waiting

for the right moment

to celebrate.

waiting for someone

wonderful

to come into my life,

not the person i originally

bought it for.

the twoway mirror line up

i stand

behind the two-way mirror

and look

at the line up

of women on the stage.

women that

have ruined my life.

the cop

tells them to turn left,

now turn right,

now face forward and scream

the words

i hate you.

is she one of them?

he asks me.

hmmm. i'm not sure.

can you ask them to make

a throwing motion

like she's tossing

a bottle or a knife?

sure, he says. sure.

they all do that, but still

i'm confused.

maybe have them text on

their phones

and dim the lights.

too busy for this

i'm busy

i tell the tree, the shrubs,

the weeds.

too busy

to rake

today, to mend the fence,

to tighten

the screws

on the clapboards

that rattle.

i'm too busy,

i say to the wind,

the clouds.

i have things to do,

many things to think about.

imagining tomorrows

admittedly i knew

nothing, still a shy child,

and yet

inside, i knew

more than what i spoke.

and as i drew my finger

along the cold

glass pane

of the window drawing

out a face,

a name.

standing tall on the yellow

kitchen chair.

i could see the future,

i knew

in that moment

that there's more to all of this

than what has passed.

the man who fell to earth

i've been in space

for three

months now. they can't get me down.

i hate these

people.

i've stopped making

eye contact with them.

i feel like

i'm at thanksgiving

dinner

with all my relatives.

i want out of this tin can.

i stare out the window

sucking on

a space protein bar

and long for earth, that sweet

little blue

spot in the blackness

of the universe.

it stinks in here.

someone keeps pushing

their elbow into

my back

when i'm trying to sleep.

the toilets are backed up

with plant meat

and kale.

i keep looking at the hatch

door, and tell myself,

why not.

why not get out of here?

the shadows in the night

three a.m.

is when they seem to come out

of the woods,

not raccoons, or foxes,

or deer,

or rabbits.

no it's the thieves,

the hooded

crew

breaking into cars

and homes,

sheds,

stealing everything from

tires

and money,

boats

and tools.

anything not nailed down,

and sometimes

those things too.

they're very deft though,

quiet as mice,

slithering

through

the cold night.

there they go on the ring

cameras,

shadows,

unrecognizable,

only to return tomorrow

to be on

another video.

down the hall there's ice

it's a roadside

motel

on the way to the beach.

the fields

are cut,

the rows of green gone.

the corn

harvested,

the soy and

sea of beans

are in cans now. 

the world is flat again,

as i check in.

free wi-fi

the sign says.

color tv.

i open the door to what

hell must

be like.

how can anyone stay

here more

than one night

without killing themselves.

the hard

bed,

the hard pillow,

the smell of cigarettes

and sin.

someone has even lifted

Gideon's Bible from the skinny

drawer.

but down the hall,

there's ice.

the cool wet mud

we get

used to things.

or not

having things,

having too much.

we fool

ourselves

with joyful talk.

we are pigs in the mud,

wallowing

in the cool

wet dirt.

we roll around and tell

others we're

happy.

but we're not.

the mask beneath the mask

i ask

her what she's going to be

for Halloween,

what

mask will she wear

after taking

off the one she wears

all day,

the one she fooled

me with,

the one with a smile

and pretty face.

maybe just go with the one

under that 

i tell her.

it's beyond scary

and will chase everyone

away.

sugar is the new cigarette

i read

somewhere where a glass

of orange

juice is worse

than drinking

a glass of coca cola.

as much sugar

if not more.

what's next?

are you going to tell me

pop tarts

are bad for me too?

ice cream and cake?

are you trying to say

that they've been

lying to us for decades

about food?

more funny than scary

there are few if any

scary

movies anymore.

it's been done too much, 

over

and over.

again.

the monster

lurking in the shadows,

the rising

of the dead

from their graves,

the masked

man

in the woods with a chainsaw.

Linda Blair

with green

vomit and a rotating head.

we've seen it all,

all the special effects with

witches and ghouls,

Rosemary's baby,

part one,

part two.

in color,

in black and white,

what's scary anymore?

what puts a chill down our

spine,

and raises

the hair on our heads,

not much,

just the six o'clock news.

phil or the wrench

do i take

a wrench to the dripping faucet,

or do i call

Phil,

the plumber?

wrench or Phil, i ponder.

he could be here

by tomorrow,

between

the hours of noon and five

pm.

the wrench

is tempting.

but no.

i can't deal with another

flood.

she gets to the point

the birds

give you little chance to study

them.

she tells me,

staring out the window.

they fly

away so quickly

at the slightest

of noises.

at the smallest threat

of capture,

or harm.

i notice that you

are like that,

exactly like that,

she says, turning to me,

still in bed,

at last getting to the point.

baby it's cold in here

i wake

up shivering.

i should have turned the heat

on last

night.

but you weren't

here to remind me.

or to hold

me as the pipes froze.

you should have called,

or texted me.

or sent me

an email to remind

me that the temperature

was going to drop,

but you didn't.

where are you, anyway?

the holiday party

as soon

as i get there, i look at my

watch,

and look

for the exit.

i loosen my tie,

grab a drink

and a piece of shrimp,

then find a shadowy

corner

to retreat to, before

someone introduces

themselves

and asks me who i am,

and what do i do.

i smile

and nod my head.

say hello,

Merry Christmas,

Merry Christmas,

but keep inching towards

the door.

i shuffle through

the crowd,

saying excuse me, 

excuse me

then slowly slip out,

hustling

down the back stairs

and out

into the lovely falling snow

where i toss

the shrimp to a stray

cat

in the alley.

i need something

i need something.

just

a little something

to soothe

my soul,

my mouth,

my desire,

my craving.

maybe something

sweet,

maybe salty, maybe

crunchy.

i can't quite put my finger

on what

it is i want.

what do you have?

what's new?

putting her life in storage

when

i helped her move out of her rental

apartment,

she had

twenty-seven plastic

bins

filled up

with a thousand pictures

and receipts.

plastic baby spoons,

and cracker jack

rings.

mementos

and unusual strands

of strings.

she had her son's

first diaper

in one.

used Band-Aids,

and bandages

that ex-husbands

and her

married boyfriend had used.

hairbrushes still

holding

their hair,

and the face towels

they used.

there was one bin

filled with only

their left behind shoes.

there were coasters

from bars.

napkins pressed

with lipstick

kisses.

frayed underwear,

his and hers,

and half eaten candy bars.

it was a yard

sale, a flea market.

a strange collection of her

even stranger

life.

bizarre.

i can't find my blue bin

because

i don't recycle,

i'm the talk of the neighborhood.

i'm shunned.

never invited

to any block parties,

or picnics.

they point at me as i drive

by in

my 8 cylinder

truck.

they shake their heads

at my

lack of concern

for the environment.

they believe that i don't care

about turtles

and whales,

and the next generation

growing

up to inhale

the pollution.

but i do care.

just not all the time.

one tip for sanity

there

are seven tips

to living longer,

six

for better sex,

five

tips for buying a car,

eight

for keeping your

skin moist.

there are two

tips

for losing weight,

nine

tips

for avoiding

dementia,

four tips for keeping

your dog

from barking.

twelve

tips

on how to make

small talk to strangers.

and one tip

for 

sanity.

put your phone down.

memories into ash

it's the first fire

of fall.

i throw the wood into

the pit

and light

a match.

the flames rise high

above

the fence.

i move the chair closer

as it dies

down

and rub my hands together

against the heat.

i stare

into fire, listen to the crackle

of what's

burning.

memories into ash.

at times it's so easy

to start over

again.

tossing people overboard

like

the captain of a ship

that's taking

on water,

i start to throw things overboard

to stay afloat.

some people

might call it simplifying

things.

which it is.

reducing

the weight of what holds

me down.

a few passengers

might have to go too,

the whining ones,

but not worry, they'll

find another

boat, another shore.

the last of the Lions

the great ones

seem to be leaving us

with each new day.

the great

actors,

the amazing writers

and poets.

the best

of a generation.

the song writers

and singers.

the bands.

the last lions are long

in the tooth.

where are the new giants?

why does

everything and everyone

seem to be of

a lighter

note now? 

borne of 

a lesser brand.

seven days on the Aegean Sea

we were quarantined

in our cabin

for three days and three nights

of our seven

day cruise

down the Aegean Sea.

i should never have gone

down to the ships

doctor

and asked for a bottle of

Pepto Bismol

after eating

three whole lobsters

and drinking

four margaritas when

boarding the ship.

a big mistake.

they put a guard at our door

where they left our

food on a tray.

we discovered quickly our vast

differences

about everything

under the sun, but

we were stuck together

until our blood samples

said all clear.

it was a learning experience,

though it was the last

trip we ever took together.

that was good, very good

i tell

her that was good, very

good.

yes,

she says, but what number

on the Richter

Scale

would you give it.

maybe a four, 

or a four point five, I tell her.

yes.

she says.

i agree.

we have a lot work

to do.

the earth needs to shake

a little more.

different roads taken

it's a strange

trip

we're all on. for some

a long

road,

a hard road, for others,

not so much.

an easy

glide

where little goes wrong,

hardly a bump

is hit,

or squeak is heard.

the silver

spoon

has fed them.

i know you are but what am i

the political campaign

is getting ugly.

the mud

is being slung.

forget policy discussions.

the name calling has

begun.

i know you are but what

am i,

i heard her say

to him,

and he replied what

you say 

to me

bounces of me

and sticks to you,

just like gum.

your momma, she shot

back,

talk to the hand,

he said in return,

and laughed.

you're stupid, she said.

no, you're stupid,

he replied.

look up dumb in the dictionary

and there's a picture

of you.

well, you're fat.

but at least i'm not ugly.

three more weeks

to decide.

road maps in the glove compartment

there used

to be maps, great wide

sheets

of paper

covered in lines, red

and blue, filled

with tiny ant

like writing,

lines drawn

across and down,

longitude

and latitude. 

some had time zones,

and zip codes.

circles of blue

for water,

green for parks.

we were all bombardiers

back then

floating

high above the clouds

trying

to find our way,

with the dome light on,

to go anywhere.

cheese whiz

apparently

the world loves cheese.

there's a whole

section

of it at the grocery store,

a special section

walled off

where

people in chef's hats

are slicing it up

into trapezoid and

triangular

pieces,

after weighing

it and holding it up to the light.

there are big

building blocks

of cheese.

neanderthal wheels

of cheese.

it's expensive, all this cheese.

so many different

kinds.

what's up with cheese?

and then there's

the crackers

that go with it, the plum

sauce,

the berries,

the orange goo,

the raspberry spread.

walk further

and there are the packages

of cheese,

all kinds,

hanging on racks.

cheaper cheese,

ones not from France.

i can't even begin to list

them all.

i'd have to learn three new

languages.

the large white onion

as i chop

this large white onion.

tears

roll down my cheeks.

i begin

to cry.

first it's because of the onion,

and then

it's about other

things,

so many other things

that are

trapped inside.

after a bottle of wine she says this

yes.

there are no good reasons

to vote

for me,

she says,

sipping on a

deep pour of pinot noir.

my record has been dismal.

the country

is less

safe, everything

costs more.

the borders

are overflowing

with 

thieves

and rapists, gang

members

and murderers.

the world

is at war.

yes, i haven't

been that great

and half the time

i don't know

what i'm talking about

or which

accent to use

when i'm making a speech,

but hey.

you can't vote for him

again, can you?

one more before i sleep

it's the dopamine

rush

that fuels us.

the Pavlov

dog,

drooling

expecting

a treat of some sort

as the bell

dings.

we're

the mouse in the maze

going faster

and faster

for that

piece of cheese.

it's the insanity

that

we've

all become.

we're

addicted

to the click bait

crave.

one more, one more,

one more

before

they toss me into

the six

foot grave.

rejection letters from the New Yorker

i save all

the rejection slips,

that

keep coming in

year after year.

each

new short story

rejected by someone

in New York,

or San Francisco,

Iowa or Maine.

i paste them to the wall

over

my desk.

next to all the break

up notes

from lovers long gone,

that i used to get.

my father's piece of art

i remember

my father sitting on the front

porch,

smoking,

and drinking

a beer

as he carved out the face

of a pumpkin.

digging

out the soft

mushy guts,

removing the top,

and then setting a candle

inside.

he then lit it with his

lighter

and stood back, 

as the sky grew dark.

he asked us

what we thought.

great dad, we said as one.

i don't ever remember

him

being so happy, so proud

of his one

and only piece

of art.

money over hair

flat broke,

i was offered

my first real job, but the catch

was,

was that they insisted that i

cut my

hair,

which was down to my shoulders

at that point

in my

post hippy pretend

life.

i was the virgin age of eighteen,

still living

in my mother's house.

to hell with politics

or culture.

of course i gave in

despite the David

Crosby

song ringing in my ears.

money superseded any

crazy

notions of changing the world

with long

hair, and i assumed,

over time,

it would grow long

again.

fast forward

is there a more

important button on your remote

control

than the fast

forward button?

the hours that button has

saved

me when stuck on some

dumb show.

it's like turning to the last

chapter in a bad book,

or the last page.

just tell me how it ends

and let's be done

with it.

google these drugs before taking

i get so used

to limping after the antibiotic

fiasco

nearly

rupturing my Achille's

tendons,

that 

i don't realize that the pain

is nearly

gone.

but i'm still limping just

the same.

i almost have to talk my

way out

of my gimpy stroll,

convincing myself that

i'm healed

and there's nothing wrong.

taking a five minute break

we were making

love

one morning, a Sunday morning,

before

coffee

and bagels,

and the morning paper,

and walking

the dog.

in the midst of it all,

when

she tapped me on the shoulder

and said,

can we take a short

break.

did you hear that ding?

i think my mother

just called.

such is the game of love

we started out

with infatuation,

which turned

into like,

which gradually became

a form of love.

but we're back

to like again,

but unworried,

because we both know

that sometimes things

wear off,

then given time,

return again,

such is the game of love.

down route 4 to Solomons

the sign on the side

of the road

read

hubcaps, sharks' teeth

and rabbits

for sale.

the letters

written in bright red

paint,

crudely

stroked

across the plywood

board.

how could you not pull

over and take

a look

at the inventory?

we asked the fat

woman

sitting in the shade

sipping

hard lemonade how much

for a handful

of sharks teeth

and one small rabbit.

ten dollars,

she said,

and don't you need a 

hubcap

too?

sure, i told her, why not.

then picked

out a shiny

one

for the garage wall.

the opera suit

a man

needs only three suits in

life,

to get by.

the wedding suit,

the funeral

suit,

which are interchangeable,

and the opera

suit.

which is wrapped

in plastic,

still hanging in the closet,

brand new.

new words for the day

i use the word

shucks,

when stepping into

a deep

puddle on the street.

pulling the word out of some

far region

of the

verbal storage bin

in my

brain.

she says, huh?

did you just say shucks?

to which i say,

dang right,

sugar britches.

sticking with the theme.

well golly gee, she says,

watching me

as i shake my soggy loafer

and the hem

of my gabardines.

forever lost

my inability

to know which way i'm going

severely

hampers

my attempts to arrive

anywhere on time.

which way

is left,

which is right.

my internal GPS is flawed.

whether

on water or land.

if i was

in outer space, i'd be

doomed.

out of air, and still pointing

towards

the moon,

thinking

i'm getting somewhere.

i have no

sense of direction, even

when asking

someone

to point me towards

a bathroom.

it doesn't end well,

and the air blower and paper

towels

offer little help.

the fabulous new bakery

the neighborhood

next

door app is going wild

this week

with the opening of a new

bakery

down the street.

i go down

there to see what all

the fuss is about.

they rave about the donuts,

the pies

and bread,

the cinnamon rolls

and cake.

everything fresh

and baked daily.

old school.

i don't get out of my car

though,

i just roll the window

down

and breathe it all in then

sigh, as i pinch

my once

muffin top waist,

but oh, there was a day.

leaving it all behind

i loved

the old car, bought it new,

right off

the showroom

floor.

i loved the smell of it,

the speed

it could go,

the radio,

the top down.

four on the floor.

i loved

how it gleamed in

the summer

light after i spent

a Saturday

afternoon, washing

and waxing it

for date night.

oh, how i loved that

car,

it held the memories

of those years,

of my life,

which made it so

hard to

leave it on the side

of the road

when it finally died.

removing toxic people from your life

everyone,

it seems, is in therapy

these days.

men, women

children.

everyone is traumatized

by something,

by someone.

everyone

is a victim of some sort

of abuse,

or neglect.

even the therapists

are on the couch

explaining 

their sadness to another

one another,

trying to get their damaged

psyches

off their chests.

but nothing changes,

unless

you want it to.

be done with toxic people,

delete, block

and go contact.

it's the only way 

to at last find rest.

living on borrowed time

i was

bickering this morning

with the hall

rug,

the long runner

that leads

to the door,

how one

edge sticks up and i nearly

trip and fall

every morning

over it

as i carry my cup of coffee

into the other room.

i give it a piece

of my mind.

but i love the look of it,

the color,

the way

the sun hits it in the afternoon.

an expensive

Persian number.

but like most

beautiful things,

it's

living on borrowed

time.

the roulette wheel of online dating

when i used

to binge date on several

online

dating apps,

it was always a crap shoot,

for me

and them.

we're they willing

to date

a middle aged man

who was losing

his hair,

and who could stand to

lose a few pounds

of weight?

divorced and still paying

alimony?

i didn't hunt camp or fish,

or jump

out of planes.

nor did i like to hike.

was i tall enough,

and did this shirt

i pulled out

of the laundry basket

have any stains

left over from the calamari

the other night?

and was i willing to throw

my hat into the ring

with someone

on Prozac,

and Botox, seeing

two therapists,

and yet who said they

loved to laugh,

but left out the part

about how they loved to eat?

so many were

living on alimony, child support,

and packing

heat?

was i ready to turn the page

and start

a new chapter

with a woman who had

a criminal

record

and enormous feet?

installing solar panels

my neighbor

installed so many solar panels on his

house

that the roof caught fire.

quickly though,

i gathered

the kids

and others

and with a bag of marshmallows,

a box

of graham crackers

and long sticks

and we made

some smores.

saving the planet one can at a time

you can't just get the straight

news

anymore.

it's all twisted and slanted

to whatever

side

the paper

or station leans towards.

i was reading

about a cat

stuck up in a tree the other

day,

and the editorial

claimed

that this wouldn't have

happened

if not for climate change.

we need

to separate more cans,

and glass,

and paper

to save us, and the poor

cats too.

the waitress at Denny's

as young Turks,

we'd roll

the dice when going out,

hunting.

searching

for love,

or something resembling love

at least for the night.

cologne

was important, as

was

hair.

a clean shirt, blue

jeans

and decent shoes

to dance in.

a pocket full of cash

was part of it too.

we'd close most places

down

in Georgetown.

then

drive up

to 19th street

to the Sign of the Whale,

or Flaps,

or Numbers.

trying our luck

out there. and if there was

no luck,

there was Denny's

on the way home.

eggs and bacon, coffee

and hashbrowns,

maybe a waitress with long

blonde hair.

she just got back from Spain

weeks after

she returns

from Spain, she's still wearing

the orange

and yellow

and red 

dress

that she bought

in Madrid,

and the big earrings.

her lips

seem swollen

with bold dark lipstick.

she's hanging

onto

the accent too.

though mangling the words.

you must come

over

for Sangria

and paella soon,

she tells me,

on the phone. i can hear

the clicking

of castanets and the tapping

of her high heel

shoes

in her freshly painted

stucco sunroom.

medical alert bracelet in limited colors

the fast-talking man

on the phone tells me all about

the medical

alert

necklace,

or bracelet that he's

hawking

with a nervously

rehearsed pitch

that's he probably said

a thousand

times today.

it comes in white

or black,

he says.

and it has a state

of the art GPS.

people in outer space

will be able

to locate me, he says.

satellites

circling the earth

will save my life.

but i tell him blue is my

color. not black or white.

blue goes with my eyes

so that

if i fall

down and crack my head

on the toilet

i want to look nice

when the paramedics

come in

to haul me away.

all of my pajamas are blue

too, i tell him.

but we don't have blue,

he says.

so, sadly,

there's no sale

again today.

driving around until the moon went down

Kenny

had a dodge dart duster

with glass

packs,

purple, with

three on the floor,

not nearly

enough horsepower

for the looks

of it,

and yet it got us around,

with a superb

stereo.

and a cooler

in the back

full of ice

and miller lights

enough bottes

to last until the moon

went down.

and out you go

it doesn't matter

president,

or queen,

prince

or pauper, rich or

smart,

or dumb as

the rocks

you stand upon.

each to his own way

of living

in this world.

earning

his crust

of bread.

pants on, shoes on.

and out

you go

into the wilderness.

despite intentions

it's

a pink snake,

with black

rings,

that crawls and wraps

itself

around

the slender tree,

rising

upwards towards

a nest.

it's a beautiful

thing,

the gleam of sunlight

on it's skin,

a piece of art,

despite

intentions.

when the thrill is gone

you go to hear

the rock

band

because you've been

buying

their music

for fifty plus years

and you

know every word by heart.

you've

purchased

their records, their cd's

their 8 tracks,

their cassettes

with all the same old

songs,

most in boxes now

inside

a closet. you loved

them.

but then

the lead singer starts

the show

with a twenty minute

sermon

about politics and who

we should

vote for.

preaching his own version

of the gospel

of democracy.

it's so disappointing.

making you leave before

the first

guitar lick takes place,

or drum gets hit.

born to run, hardly,

the thrill is gone.

under new management

the banner

hanging over the door of the restaurant

says

under new management.

grand opening.

so i go in.

but

nothing has changed.

Joe is still working

the bar

and Candy is waiting on

tables

in her leather

pants and low-cut merino

wool sweater.

i see Frank

through the little square

window

scraping the grill.

i ask Candy, 

as i sit down

to peruse the menu,

what's new,

what's changed?

she points at the menu

and says,

we now have breakfast all day,

and we're getting

brand new

cutlery tomorrow.

what would you have done differently?

they ask

the candidate if she would

have done

anything differently

if she had been president

during

the last four years

instead of the vp.

oh my she says, rolling her

eyes,

laughing.

oh not really.

i would have done it all

the same way.

so you wouldn't have tried

to lower

prices,

and inflation,

or fund and support

the police,

or close the border

after letting in so many

criminals

onto our streets?

no, no.

we're good.

you'll see, why fix what's

already

broken.

vote for me.

the Maine lighthouse

it is a good memory,

i think

to myself, as i hold the photograph

of the lighthouse

in Maine.

you beside

it, near the rocks

and water,

the wind your hair,

your face

young.

it's a good memory,

one

that you shared.

i wish at times that i had

been there.

in over your head

when

you're in over your head,

and the water

is filling

your nose

and ears,

your lungs,

you flail, you holler

and scream

as best you can

as you begin

to sink,

but nothing

or no one

can save you.

some do it on land

too.

sadly, you're done.

getting the old gang back together

the guys,

the old gang tries to get together,

to reminisce

about our days

playing ball,

when we were young.

and then into middle age.

we had

an unbreakable bond.

we shared

so many hours together

on the field

and court.

but now,

it's hard to meet up.

Howard

wants to know what were

wearing,

Jim, is concerned about

parking,

and if it's going to rain.

before dark

would be nice, says Bill,

awaiting

cataract surgery.

Donnie,

asks if there's wheelchair

access.

and Frank wants to bring all

of his grandchildren.

i suggest maybe a zoom call,

to which Eddie says,

what's that?

doctor evil

i'm afraid of my doctor.

every time

i go for a visit

i'm more injured and sick

than when

i arrived.

he has

a maniacal beside manner,

never

quite looking

you in the eye.

shuffling his feet,

as he dispenses pills

like chicklets

at Halloween.

i try to keep my distance

when he

comes into the room,

as my blood pressure

skyrockets

and my eyes bulge

with fear

and gloom.

as a porpoise floats by

we wake

up

at sunrise,

apparently 

the storm is over. 

the winds have finally

died down.

we tip toe

to the window

and see

a porpoise floating by,

a small

fishing

boat,

and three kids

on surf boards.

we keep

our life preservers on,

which makes

it hard

to move around,

but we're fine.

the power is out, but

we're alive.

the little girl is getting married

my daughter

cautiously approaches me

as i sit

on the porch reading

the paper,

and says,

dad, we need to talk.

she sits down

beside me,

and puts her hand on my

my hand.

i see the ring on her

finger.

she starts to cry.

it's okay, dear, i tell her.

congratulations.

it's about time.

your mother has been wanting

to use your

room for a sewing

room,

for a long long time.

so who's the lucky guy?

Jimmy?

the stockbroker

that you met in your seventh

year in college?

oh, no that ended five

years ago.

it's some dude i met online.

he has a podcast

about

the eco system

and how it's affecting

red wine.

our new best friend

the waiter,

our new

best friend, appears again.

wanting

to know

how everything is, we chew

our first bite of food

and swallow.

we wipe our

lips and tell him everything

is fine.

more water?

he says,

pouring more into

our glasses.

i'll be close

by

if you need anything.

more parmesan cheese

or pepper perhaps?

magically

making

the enormous wood shaker

appear.

maybe just

a sprinkle i tell him.

and you miss?

no, she says.

but i would like some more

bread.

which

he suddenly takes out of

his jacket.

with pads of butter.

i'll be right over there, he says.

and oh,

here's the dessert

menu

for when you're ready.

the chocolate waffle cake

is to die

for. it's my favorite.

you don't have issues

with gluten,

do you?

i reach for my pepper spray,

but she stops

me.

and says. no. not now.

wait until

we leave.

the Mickey Mouse club

it's the media

blitz

as election day

approaches.

i see the candidate on Stern

and the View,

on Colbert.

Kimmel

and Jerry Springer.

next week she's on

Sesame Street,

and then

off to Captain Kangaroo,

before stopping

at the Mickey Mouse

club for

an interview.

she has her note cards

prepared.

there's joy and laughter

in the air.

more degrees than a thermometer

it's not

fine art exactly. but they're framed.

all the degrees

representing

education

at various institutions

and money

spent.

i only owe two hundred

thousand

on tuition,

he tells me. but hopefully

the next president

will erase all of that.

i turn 35 next year and

i've sent my resume out

everywhere.

so it's just a matter of time

before i land

that big job.

i'm sure there's some

company out there that

needs a poet slash

philosopher.

into the second bottle

it's just

wine, she says. the French love

wine.

the Italians,

the Greek.

can you help me with this cork?

i'm having trouble

here.

just one more

glass before

we go.

but we're home, i tell her.

oh really.

i forgot.

okay, yes, i think you're right.

there's the dog,

the cat.

the clock.

good, i think

you've got that cork.

now be a big

boy

and give me another

large pour.

i surrender, good luck with being me

tired from the endless

calls, at last

i allow

the man on the phone to steal my

identity.

i give him

my social security number,

my bank

account numbers,

my address,

my phone numbers.

i give him the names of my

children,

my wife.

my doctor.

i give him my height and weight.

i tell him where

i work,

and how much money

i make.

i give him

my mother's maiden name.

i tell him

where i was born,

where i grew up.

what school i attended.

i tell him

my nickname.

my dog's name.

i give him all the passwords

to everything

on my computer

and phone.

i give him the combination

to my safe,

the name of my first love.

i tell him

where i'll park my car tomorrow

and that i'll

leave the keys

under the seat.

go ahead, i tell him, it's all

yours,

everything.

it's your turn.

i'm so tired of being me.

the contagious word salad

it seems

to be contagious now

as the candidate

goes on and on with each

new friendly

interview.

it's leaked into my own

household.

i ask

my wife why she went

to Williams and Sonoma

and spent

a thousand dollars on

new pots and pans,

and silverware.

and a new coffee maker.

i was raised a middle

class girl,

she tells me.

but, i say.

no, please i'm talking here.

she puts her hand

into my face

and continues.

my mother had to work

to make

money, we didn't have

the government

to rely on like we do now.

we lived in a neighborhood

where

people loved

their lawns.

we didn't have everything

we wanted,

but we had joy.

excuse me, i tell her,

my question was why

did you

spend a thousand dollars

on things

we already have?

i just told you why, she responds.

we weren't poor,

but we weren't rich

either.

we were a middle class

family.

and by the way, have you

noticed

how long the grass is outside?

Luigi's wood fired pizza

when i burn

the top

of my mouth on a bite

of bubbling

pizza,

hot out of Luigi's 

wood burning oven,

the mozzarella sticking

to the skin,

it reminds

me days later, still sore,

of how impatient i've

been.

not just with you,

but with pizza

too.

a row of pink houses

when

you see a pea green house,

after

you make

the turn

then cross the tracks,

then a pink

one

and a blue clapboard,

followed

by yellow,

you know you you've

stumbled

upon

independent thinkers

of a poorer

class,

not by choice, perhaps,

just

hard working

souls

who like to express

themselves.

teaching her how to nap

it was hard

at first,

because she was so energetic,

a go getter

of sorts,

so i had

to introduce

her to the afternoon nap,

teach her

how to do it.

i showed

her how to dim the lights,

turn

off the phone,

pull the shades to make

the room

dark. i convinced her

that it was best to take off all

your clothes too.

you don't want a belt

or tight shirt, loose

undergarments

disturbing you.

of course the nap turned

into other

things too,

which she didn't seem to mind.

and it made

the afternoon

nap that much sweeter

once we were through.

they're all in on it

it's the food

of course.

they don't want to tell you that,

because

it might seem

like they

are in on it, making you

fat

and confused,

dazed.

and addicted

to sugar and salt,

candy and chips.

sodas

and cake.

the doctors too. why

get to the bottom

of your

fat bottom,

when they can just sell

you a pill,

or an injection,

to lose a pound or two.

whistle while you work

you don't

hear people whistling anymore.

tines are too hard.

it's rare with

men or women.

people look at you

like you're crazy

if you go

around whistling

like a bird.

but my uncle

used to whistle. he had

a fabulous

whistle.

he used to whistle

any song

you've heard.

the dogs in the neighborhood

loved him.

but his wife,

i think she had enough

of it.

morning noon

and night.

no one was offended

we had

terms of endearments

for our

friends when we were young.

Johnny

was jumbo

because of his massive

size,

Ernesto was

coffee bean, because

he was as dark as one,

Pat

was pasty, again

because of his skin

color.

Sally was blondie

for her wild

curly locks,

and Georgia

was Mae West for two

obvious reasons.

of course there was

Slim Jim,

and Stumbles,

Pointdexter and Brainiac

who had

an answer for everything.

if you didn't have

a nickname,

you didn't feel loved.

another successful interview

when

someone doesn't' know what

they're

talking

about, they use more

words

than they

need to.

they clutter up their

talk

with nonsense,

going around in a circle,

deflecting

to hide their ignorance,

repeating lines they've

memorized,

until everyone

forgets what

the question was

and then weary,

they move on 

amidst her laughter.

another successful interview

is over.

waiting on Betsy in her yellow bikini

i spent

many days, many summer

hours

lingering

at the pool,

hoping Betsy would show

up

in her yellow

bikini.

i wore

my sunglasses

and Coppertone.

i flexed

and sat

up

staring out across the wide

blue pool.

i'm still waiting now,

but i'm

growing old.

we're all addicts

we don't

think we do, but we all

have addictions

of some sort.

maybe

not drugs,

or alcohol, smoking,

but

there are other things

that melt

our butter

and help us through

the hard nights,

the lost days,

whether

food or sex, or some sort

of bling.

even love

can be an illusion,

a temporary fix

for what's gone wrong

as children.

two blocks left then right

i like

how when you turn a corner

in the city

it's a different

place.

with

different people,

with different

food

to offer.

the music too coming

out of the windows,

the scents

of life.

the language.

from

here, even with the park

not far away,

you have

a different

view.

waiting for love

i see her

standing by the lake.

hands

folded.

pensive. quiet

as she stares out across

the calm

blue water.

what are you doing?

i ask her.

i'm waiting, she says.

for what?

for my ship

to come in, let's

call it love.

i nod and move the grey

hair

from her face.

i get her

a chair.

the racket of dawn

i wake

up before the sun does.

i can

hear every

mode of transportation

that runs

in the world

outside

the window.

cars

and locomotives,

buses

and planes.

anything with a wheel

and an

engine

seems to be engaged.

leaf blowers too.

hedge trimmers.

is that

a trash truck i hear

lifting

the barrels?

the birds

have no chance

on this

autumn day.

and what is that,

a hair dryer in the bathroom?

you too?

the barking dog

i've never

seen

the neighbor's dog,

next door.

but i've listened to it bark.

all day,

all night.

i've never seen it on 

a leash,

or in the yard,

or chasing

a ball.

though i've heard

it scratch

at the doors trying

to escape.

i wonder about this dog.

its life

in a cage.

closed for business

the cemetery

on the hill is closed.

there's

no more room for

the dead.

they are lined

up in narrow

alleys

like the poor are

in skid row.

they've run out of space.

they can

no longer hold

another soul.

let's pray it's different

when we

arrive

at the pearly gates.

why are you biting me?

i stare at the red

welt on

my leg and wonder

why

do the bugs want to bite

us?

mosquitos, bed bugs,

spiders.

an assortment of tiny

crawling

things.

what pleasure

or nourishment

are they getting out

of sinking

their teeth, if they

have teeth,

into our soft skin,

leaving behind

a red

hill that itches.

what's the point?

is it is the salt, the sugar,

the sweat,

that makes them bite us,

over

and over again, only

to be swatted

with the Sunday times,

having their lives

abruptly end.

i need a Sunday car

we use

to peruse the enormous car

lot

and find

a car

to test drive.

the salesman

in a checkered

coat, smoking,

not far behind us.

we had nothing to go on,

but the badge

on the side,

and the color, two or

four door.

six cylinder or eight.

automatic

or a stick on the floor.

but now.

God help us with the variations.

hybrid,

and plug in,

gas or electric.

four wheel, or two.

every country

is represented.

we have nowhere to turn,

to pick one,

other than

going on YouTube.

sweet dreams

i had

the opposite of insomnia

after healing

my wounds, 

learning all the lessons

of a broken

heart.

a master class of wisdom.

i couldn't

stay awake.

i embraced

sleep, the nap, the long

hours between

darkness

and light.

nothing bothered me,

or kept

me up anymore.

it was a wonderful time.

and i thank

you for that. meeting

you was

such luck.

her love of poetry, Neva

i imagine

she's 90 by now and more,

but

i still see her

in front of the class

teaching,

chalk scratching

at the blackboard.

her pocketbook 

around her shoulder,

not yet

set down,

her glasses

steamed

with enthusiasm

as she

tells us what we don't

know,

about sylvia Plath

and sexton,

mark strand

and the immortals of

modern

poets. Larkin

and Ignatow.

confessionals.

though she avoids

Charles Bukowski, who

she can't stand.

the whitsun weddings again

when

i turn the pages of this old

book,

frazzled

and worn,

the binding broken,

i expect

to find another gem

hidden

between

the pages, an unexpected

poem

unread,

waiting just for my

eyes.

i wet my fingers

and turn,

and turn and turn

the yellowed pages,

and at last

there it is,

another one to my

surprise.