i put more water on

i've waited too long

to take

the second

sip of coffee. it's gone

cold.

the nearly

full cup

on the sill by

the window is

frosty

now.

but the book was

too good

to set down.

i put more water on.

the unringing phone

i think

there's something wrong

with the phone.

it hasn't

rung in days.

i pick it up

and listen to the dial tone.

the long

benign

buzz of the world out

there,

disconnected,

not calling me.

maybe later.

i'll stay nearby

just in case.

it's a slippery world

it's a slippery

world.

hold on, hold the rail,

find a hand,

a shoulder

to lean on.

the road is slick,

the steps

are icy.

the sidewalk is covered

in snow.

the second

you are born, you

spend so much time

keeping

upright

and pressing on.

staying in tonight

let's keep

it simple tonight, i tell her.

taking out

a loaf

of white bread.

a jar of peanut butter

and some

blueberry jam.

let's not get all

dressed

up and go out.

it's cold

and it might rain.

okay, she says.

and pours out two

glasses

of milk then

places three cookies

each

next to the sandwiches.

we take it out on the tv

trays,

and settle

in.

duck and run

i say the wrong

thing,

again. but it's too late.

the words

have left

my mouth.

the conversation stops

and

a woman

stands up and says

i can't believe you said

that.

just who do you think

your are?

i tell her that she sure

looks

pretty tonight in

that tight fitting short

black skirt,

usually you don't see

old women

wearing clothes

like that

out in public,

which makes it worse.

the country bar in town

i see no horses,

no cows,

no ranches, or fences,

nothing

to rustle

up for miles. and yet

i see a lot

of cowboy hats.

and big belt buckles.

boots and chaps,

and girls

with saddles.

there's a twang in

their voices,

country

in their stride.

everyone is

dancing in a line.

i'm lost in a Peckinpah

movie.

i've got to get outside.

when the school yard bully grows up

i've

shaved a minute

off

my drive by

taking

a short cut through

the park.

driving on the sidewalks,

scattering

pedestrians

and dogs.

i used my horn

all day.

i'm in a very big hurry.

i always am.

i'm short

and squat but in my circles

i'm a big shot.

i roll through

red lights, i jump

lines,

i ask

the cop do you know who

i am.

when i die

and they hold the funeral,

you'll need tickets

to get in.

she just had to go to a dive bar

she only

wanted to go to dive

bars.

nothing local

of course.

no chain coffee shop,

or restaurant

would do,

nothing with linen

tablecloths

or candles or menus.

we had to drive

to the boon docks,

to a run down

shack,

serving

eggs and scrapple

all day long.

there had to be

liver and onions on

Thursday

which

would be written on

a chalk board

out front.

and they had

to have

their own beer of course

made

in the back

by some guy named

Earle.

some people had teeth,

some didn't.

and there was always a dog

chained

to a tire

around back.

most of the time, i'd eat

after

i got home.

what is crypto exactly?

it's money,

but it's not money.

it's electronic

currency of some sort.

bizarre wizardry

invented

by some unknown

tech guru.

it's bits

of this,

pieces of that.

there is no bank,

there is nothing

to hold in your hand.

no coin,

or folding

cash.

no gold,

or silver to back it.

it's just numbers

going up

and down.

i'm getting

a headache

with your explanation.

i'm sorry that i asked.

did you hear that, i think i heard something out there

she likes

to go camping.

the wood

fire.

the stars at night.

the breeze,

the ripple of the stream

nearby.

she likes

her cozy tent

and sleeping bag.

she enjoys

the sound

of the crickets,

the rustling of birds,

and creatures

prowling around.

she doesn't mind

the snakes

that appear out of nowhere,

or having to go off

into the trees

to relieve

herself.

or putting all our food

in a basket,

on a high

branch to keep

the bears away.

she doesn't mind the hard

cold ground,

or the fact that there's

no cell reception, 

at all.

whereas,

i like the Holiday Inn.

waiting on the first born

you can

always tell, in the waiting

room,

the men

who are yet to be fathers,

and the ones

who are

fathers already,

with three or more kids

long out

of the oven.

the first

group

of men, are pacing.

they look tired and scared.

constantly

looking

at the door for the nurse

or doctor to appear.

while the later

group of men are on their

phones,

placing bets

at the racetrack,

or ordering pizza

for when they get

home.

what if this is it

startled

by the thought of

what if

this is it

i sat up in bed and wiped

the cold

sweat

from my brow.

i hadn't

had that thought

in a while

not since

the last bad marriage.

whew.

i took a few

deep breaths, held

the dog

closer and went

back to sleep.

temporary stays

when

i met her, she was living

out of boxes.

no dressers,

nothing hung

in the closet.

i asked her how long had

she been

living in this apartment,

two years

she said.

she washed her clothes

in the sink.

and sat

on the floor

to do her make up,

using a toaster

as a mirror.

nothing changed when

she moved

in with me.

democrats fighting

he tells

me

the marriage is over,

he's nearly

weeping

as he sips his vodka.

she wants

me out,

he says.

gone,

that's what she said.

too bad

i tell him. marriage

is tough

at times when you don't

get along.

i thought you two were

on the same

page with the election.

me too,

he tells me. but

she wants me to march

around the white house

and i don't

want to march

anymore. plus

she's shaved her head

and is withholding

sex.

also she wants me to wear

a dog collar

and put me on

a leash, and

she's not even cooking

anymore.

do you have

any room

at your house, he asks

in a whisper.

cupping

his hand on the phone.

umm.

not really.

but i could sleep on

the floor,

or in the basement

on a pile

of clothes.

didn't we do this eight

years ago,

i ask him, staring into

the phone.

pop tarts and other assorted poisons

the new

nicotine is sugar

and

fructose,

corn oils

and a hundred other

unpronounceable

chemicals

that they

are putting in our food.

keeping us

addicted

to the good taste,

the dopamine

fix

of sweetness.

no wonder

everyone is fat

and sick.

taking pills

by the handful,

sticking

needles

into their bellies

to remove

the last dozen donuts

that they ate.

the playground

is full

of tubbies

in stretched clothes.

heart attacks, cancer

and diabetes

used to be rare

fifty years ago.

now it's the new normal.

the scale

is broken and the doctors

don't care.

there's money

to be made here in them

there hills

and rolls.

the long drive back home after visiting the parents

it's a long

boring drive from

Pennsylvania.

we take turns

at the wheel.

she puts her foot

out the window

when it's my turn.

she opens a bag of potato

chips.

some go flying

around the inside

of the car.

we're both quiet

and tired

from the trip.

the trunk is full of

rattling

Tupperware,

jammed with leftovers

from thanksgiving.

the radio

is on.

the signs go by in

blurs,

the billboards,

the telephone poles,

the dashes

on the road.

it's becoming night.

she points at a cloud

in the sky

and asks me what

i think it

looks like.

i tell her, i think it

looks

like a witch on a

broom,

angry and frail.

she says i think it looks

like your mother.

we don't talk

for a while.

conversation with a parking meter

i stare

at the parking meter, fumbling

for coins.

what is it this

time, a credit card,

a license plate? yes it's

you again

i say to the meters

face.

the metal

lips

gone cold.

the throat of it hungry

for gold.

i know you, i tell it.

i know

your ruthless

soul,

your skinny 

but bent steel pole.

i know i'll run out

of time

again before i leave,

before i

have to go.

i know

i'll owe the man again,

it's what you

people do.

i know.

love is not for the weak

she wants

a love

poem, a sappy bouquet

of flowery

words,

a Hallmark

card

of sorts,

but love isn't like that.

it's strange,

it's hard.

it's blood and guts,

it's

wandering

the night streets

with the insane.

love is a mysterious

and dangerous

game.

it's not for the weak

or faint

of heart.

it's not

a gentle summer

rain.

sorry, we're out of coffee

it's a coffee shop

in the heart

of town

with a big plate glass

window that

says Joe's Coffee.

French Roast.

whole beans and ground.

coffee from all over

the world.

Jamaica and Morocco,

Turkey,

and the far East.

yelp gives it five stars.

it's cold

and windy so we go in

and sit down.

but they're out of coffee.

they have

water, and tea though.

i ask them when

will they have coffee

again.

they shrug and say,

we're not sure.

we're waiting for the ship

to come in.

no Sanka, even?

no Maxwell house?

nope, sorry, but

would you like some

Lipton, or Earl Grey.

maybe some herbal tea?

have a nice day mister Wilson

i see you

shiny dime on the floor.

mister

Wilson.

i saw you

yesterday,

the sun caught your

shiny

face

when it came through

the window.

i'll be back

tomorrow.

but i have to go to

work

now.

i'm running late.

have a nice day.

a fifty-cent cup of joe

as i sit

here

sipping on my seven

dollar

pumpkin spice

gingerbread

latte,

with soy

and an extra

shot of whipped cream,

nibbling at my

pumpkin scone.

i think

back to the fifty cent

cups

of coffee i used

to drink from 7-11

and a donut

from the case,

approaching mold.

it's not about that

we're spoiled

here.

who's hungry, who's cold?

who's down

on their luck

with medical bills,

divorce,

an accident.

who needs a job?

sign here.

who's

disenfranchised?

there's

a shelter

nearby,

a soup kitchen

down the road.

we have safety nets.

we have

rehabs centers,

community outreach,

we have

free meals,

free clothes.

but it's not about that.

when the mind

is gone,

the mentally

ill are tossed out

into the cold.

those days are never that far

i was

never burdened with a large

tuition

to pay

off once school

had ended.

i was fortunate enough to be

poor

and get into a community college

which i hitchhiked

to every morning,

it was the best

six years of my life

as i read

every book

i could borrow.

i educated myself,

i drank and sang songs,

i played a guitar.

and then

i dug ditches for a while,

washed

dishes, sold shoes

and

painted houses.

sold cars.

i couldn't imagine a more

productive

life. and still,

those days are never

that far.

the big chair in the middle of the room

nearly every man

has his

own chair in his house.

it's where he

sits in front

of the tv,

the fireplace,

he can see the whole

room from

this seat.

it's where the children

get up from

when he gets home.

the dog

and cats

scatter.

it might be faux leather,

or plaid.

there might be a newspaper

nearby,

it's his chair his throne.

maybe it rocks

back and fort

or is electrically warmed.

maybe it has

cup holders,

and the footrest extends.

maybe sometimes

he falls asleep in it,

and then, maybe then,

everyone at last

leaves him alone.

eat drink and be merry

being

an atheist

would be so much easier

than

having faith,

believing in a kind

and loving God.

there would

be no questions to answer

about death

and disease.

heartbreak

and sorrow.

why bother with the idea

of heaven

or hell.

there would be

no need to explain 

the world

at large, the mystery

of it all,

believing that

life is just cosmic

mistake.

you could just shrug

and say,

so it goes.

we're here one day,

and gone

the next.

so fare thee well.

eat drink and be merry,

it's getting late.

when the wheels fell off

my father

kept three jobs while

raising

his children.

he was in the Navy,

managing

the Chief's club,

and flipping

burgers

in some joint down

the road.

he was rarely home,

i'd see him

going through the drive-thru

at the liquor store.

it was too much.

too hard.

he never knew

his father, he had nothing

go on.

but he tried,

and he tried and then

the wheels fell

off and he left to find a new

life,

a new bride.

a gift from my Aunt Jane

we kept

the wedding photos,

captioned

and sealed

behind

plastic sheets,

in a large white album

under the coffee

table.

it was the first wedding.

a hundred

and fifty or so

of friends

and siblings, parents

and children.

all you can drink,

all you can eat.

there was a band too

playing Proud Mary,

and the Hustle

by Van McCoy,

and other

fabled tunes.

we kept

a tremendous

slice of wedding cake

in the freezer,

saved, to be eaten

on our one

year anniversary,

which never came.

i can still see

her walking up the street

a suitcase

in hand,

with a toaster

oven under her arm,

a gift from my Aunt Jane.

i'm sure she misses me

i'm sure

she misses me.

the coffee cup stains on

her wood

furniture,

my shoes

left in the hall for

her to trip on,

the cap

off the toothpaste,

the butter

left out

overnight on the counter.

the stubble on

my face.

i'm sure she

misses the sound

of my snoring,

my taking of all

the covers,

my concern over

money,

the oil changes in the car,

and her past

lovers.

i'm sure she misses me,

there's no doubt

in my mind.

it's just a matter of time,

before the phone

rings.

the forever strike zone painted on the wall

behind

the bowling alley,

sixty years ago,

we painted

a strike zone

on the wall with a can

of black spray

paint.

our ball caps on,

with a rubber ball,

one bat,

and one glove

we played

stick ball

until the sun went down.

our arms

would be sore,

our legs tired from

chasing

the ball down the street,

or over

the fence into

the storm drain

beside

the lot, or down a sewer.

i drove by there yesterday,

with the doors locked

on my car.

the strike

zone

was still there, but

little else.

his newfound happiness

i never

see the neighbor anymore.

the divorced man

who moved in

a year ago

with a wife

and three teenage

children,

a dog

a cat, a lawnmower.

the grass

is high now,

the bushes untrimmed.

the garbage cans

are full

beside the garage.

he's disappeared

behind

his closed drapes,

i don't see him anymore.

but i see food deliveries.

Chinese,

pizza,

sandwiches from the deli.

beer

and liquor

in boxes.

sometimes women

arrive

in taxi cabs.

party girls

in sequined dresses

and big

hair.

i envy his newfound

happiness.

the sinless hour

i make

a plan to go an entire day

without

sin.

no greed,

no lust, no envy,

no pride

or sloth.

and then

a young woman

walks by in her

summer

dress.

vanity is everything

with the change

in weather,

the dropping of the temperature,

i need

to rest

more on the city

bench.

i catch my breath

from the long

walk

and take

out my blue inhaler.

i look around

to see that no one is

watching,

then take a hit or two.

filling my

lungs with the chemicals

that will

me allow me to rise

and go on.

vanity is everything.

boredom will kill you

boredom

will kill you.

perhaps not as quickly

as sadness

and grief,

long sorrow, but

it will take its toll

in the long

run.

how many hours, or

days,

can go by

before you get dressed

and leave

the house?

the garbage of others

it was an old piano

left in the woods, a

dump

of sorts, unauthorized,

with

blue

refrigerators and pink

stoves,

toilets,

tires, clothes

left

to rot and dissolve

into the brown

earth.

we stumbled upon

the treasure trove

of

books,

and knives,

cracked plates, records

tossed

aside.

plastic dolls and toy

trains,

but it was the piano

that held

my interest,

and when i struck

the keys

a sound came out.

then more

and more. a hollow

off tune

ping.

someone played this

once before,

they sat

there turning the page

of music.

perhaps singing

a song.

a family gathered around.

them

in joy,

and now this, at the end

of a dead-end road.

the differences of men and women

women,

from what i remember,

would

put limits

on men.

how much money

do you make,

they'd ask,

where do you work,

tell me about the school

you went to.

your parents?

what kind of car do you drive?

are you healthy?

do you love your

mother?

so many questions,

so many

beer induced

lies.

when we only cared about

if they would go home

with us

when the lights went up

and the joint

closed,

and that she looked

relatively fine.

that faraway star

before

my sister took over my father's

finances,

he had

almost zero in the bank.

he was flat

out of cash,

bone dry.

all of it

spent on drink and women

of the night,

or afternoon,

maybe

mornings too.

lottery tickets, at twenty

dollars a pop

in the machines

at the grocery store.

he overfed

the vice.

and then the eyes went,

the car was sold,

the walk was too far.

he couldn't trust anyone

to tell him

if he was a winner

or not.

and now

he has money.

a lot of money.

but happiness

is like

a faraway star.

i can't get used to this

i've

narrowed down my

love

interests to one.

i've removed

the toxic people from

my life,

both siblings

and friends.

i've made

my bed.

i've swept the floor,

i've defrosted

the ice box, raked

the leaves,

cleaned the oven.

i've changed the locks

on the doors.

i've put flowers in a vase.

every picture

is rehung straight.

there's a fresh coat

of paint on the walls.

but now

i'm distraught.

i can't get used to

not living

in utter chaos.

the very short list

today,

tomorrow, maybe next

week,

or tonight.

i'll get to it.

i have

my list.

my very short list.

i've written

it in ink,

it's short and sweet,

but sadly,

once more, you

aren't on it.

the snow globe

i shake

the snow globe

that i bought at Coney Island

one summer

when traveling with someone

i thought

i loved.

i bought the globe

from a woman

with whiskers

behind

a glass cage,

she slid it through

the opening

and i gave her three dollars

and seventy-five

cents.

i take it out for the holidays

now.

i spin

the dial

on the bottom

so that music comes out,

jingle bells,

then shake it

hard

to make it snow on

the little people inside,

a reindeer on top

of the tiny

house.

joy comes

in strange ways sometimes.

i need glue again

there

comes a point where

i need

glue,

a strong binding

potion

of some sort.

half the room is held

together

by such a thing.

another dish

has cracked, a vase

broken.

the handle of a cup

has fallen

off.

the sole

of my shoe has

come loose.

i go to the kitchen

drawer

where everything

important

lies in wait.

but the plastic tube

is hard

as a rock,

i need more.

blue suede shoes

they are beautiful

shoes.

blue

suede.

ala Elvis, but i've

never worn

them out,

but

i can't bring myself

to throw them

away.

sometimes i step

into them

when no one is

around.

i dance, i dance,

i tap

i sway.

the soft landing

there's the lap dog

with runny eyes,

the white couch,

the floral

drapes.

i'm an old lady

living here

in my two bedroom

apartment

in Rockville.

i'm my mother's mother

with a green

and yellow

parakeet.

i have an electric

blanket,

a space heater in

the bedroom.

i have plants 

on the windowsill

that i water

everyday.

sometimes i talk to

the desk

clerk

for hours at a time.

my hearing

has gone so i don't mind

the neighbors

above or below, or

down the hall.

i'm worried though,

that this is it,

that this is all.

the enormous bone in ham

i get a coupon

in the mail,

it comes through

the door

and falls

to the floor.

it's for

for an enormous bone

in ham

at the grocery store.

fifty percent

off.

is this the universe

talking to me,

or Kroger's?

turning the page

never, never

never,

he says, never will i pardon my son.

this helps

to get votes,

when there were

votes to get,

and yet.

it's his own flesh

and blood.

so he does.

he goes back on his word.

but hey.

it's what

politicians do.

what people do. they say

one thing,

and do another.

from childhood

to death

you're forgiven for all

the things

you've ever done.

the known and unknown.

no longer do you have

a debt.

let's turn the page, 

my wayward

son.

the holiday apologies

i write

a long heart felt letter

of apology.

i fall on my sword,

i go

full mea culpa.

i sign it,

with a kiss,

then place it into

the envelope.

a stamp in the corner,

licked.

then look at my

list.

who gets this one

today?

Christmas money

the court yard

is full

of trucks.

plumbers come

to fix

the broken pipes.

the pipes

left on

when the freeze hit

overnight.

i see them in their

overalls,

their hats and gloves

on.

shovels

and wrenches in hand.

it's Christmas money

again.

three days away

when

i kiss you with this

rough

stubble

on my face,

at last home,

you don't move away.

you

don't ask

me to shave.

you accept me

for who

i am, my strange and

thoughtless

ways.

you tenderly drag

your hand 

across

my roughness

and ask me to stay.

in the hand of woods

i'm

spoiled by these woods,

the large

green hand

of trees,

that blue

sleeve

of stream.

by the absence

of cars

passing through.

not a neon

sign to be

seen.

i'm

unjealous

of the house on the hill,

the mansion

with a gate.

the penthouse

on the roof.

no,

this is good, good enough

for me.

an oasis

to escape.

burning the roof of my mouth

i should know

better.

i should have learned

by now

to blow

on the hot spoon

of soup

before a sip.

to not put half

of the slice of pizza

with the mozzarella

still bubbling

into my mouth.

i know these things.

and yet

i do them anyway.

good weather

it's good

weather, good cold air

from

the north

upon us.

the threat of snow

hangs

in the clouds.

i feel the shiver

in your bones.

it's a fine

day

to hunker down

and wait,

to say aloud,

i love you.

so, tell us dear boy, what exactly is it that you do?

i live

in a town, where the first question

someone asks

at a dinner

party is,

so, tell me,

what exactly do you do?

i usually tell

them i'm a circus clown,

or a bus driver

for the criminally insane asylum

on the hill,

or that i clean

out the lion cages

at the zoo.

which prompts for more

questions,

which i answer

at length.

it keeps me from hearing

what they

do.

having faith in deodorant

do i believe

that this deodorant, with

the scent

of spearmint

leaves

will keep me dry

and smelling nice all day?

or this toothpaste,

will it

do away with the coffee

stains,

the yellowed aging,

and brittleness

of my teeth?

this knife at 3 am,

on tv.

will it cut through wood

and tin cans,

slice a tomato

in thin slivers?

or this little pill,

will it give

me muscles and strengthen

my libido

like it was when

i was twenty-three?

hell no.

but i buy it anyway

and i swipe my card,

let's see.

making more room for them

strange

how

the poor and hungry

want in.

they've traveled

thousands

of miles to get to the wall

and fence.

while

the rich

and famous

want to leave.

it's not good enough

anymore.

i guess now

there'll be more room

for them.

it's fine, i'll take the bus

i believe

you.

i listen to what you say,

and hear

the words

you proclaim.

i make a note of where

you stand.

where

you are on us.

every word.

i believe you.

you can have the car.

i'll take

the bus.

keeping score already

i forgive

you

the burnt toast

and spilled milk,

if you forgive me 

for

putting my muddy boots

on the coffee

table

and stepping on

your cat.

it's early, but we're

keeping

score,

aren't we?

three sets of monogrammed towels

i never should

have bought

so many

monogrammed towels

with your initials

on them.

her initials,

etc.

bath towels,

hand towels,

wash clothes.

three terry cloth

robes.

ancient history

hanging on the bar

and door.

there's so much explaining

i need to do

about my past

mistakes.

i need to purge and

go to the store.

not missing, but hiding

as i sat

and ate my cereal, pouring

milk

over my cheerios,

i saw your picture

on the side

of the milk box.

missing,

it said.

an artist's sketch

of how

you might

appear today.

i wanted to call you,

or them up

and tell them

where you

were.

or ask you,

if it was true that you

no longer

had blonde hair,

but then you might mistake

me for

someone that cared.

promises promises

funny,

how few leave the States.

it's mostly

rich celebrities that have

said they would

depart.

they promised,

they

made vows,

they swore as God is their

witness that

if their man or woman

wasn't elected

they'd be packing

their bags

and heading

east or west.

they crossed their hearts.

they said they'd

be taking the next flight

or ship

out of here.

but they don't leave.

they burrow down.

they know which side

of the bread

their butter

is on.

i saw her standing there

the line

is short. growing shorter

each

year.

we are shrinking in

numbers,

those

of us who

did the twist, 

the limbo,

the Watusi and knew

every word

by heart

of the Beatle's

latest hit.

did you get any snow?

my mother

was fascinated by the weather.

rain

or snow.

sleet or hail.

a storm got

her blood going.

she tuned into the weather channel,

and kept

me updated

on the rising

tide, or how strong

the winds

were about to blow.

by phone

she'd inquire

if we got any snow,

asking

how much did we get

in our state,

which was

over the bridge and river,

three miles

away

by flight of a crow.

even from the ground

when

i used to climb

the forty

foot ladder to scale

a slate

roof

on a cold, windy,

wet

day.

i would pray.

dear Lord, protect me

as i work

today.

and still,

years later,

i say it now,

even from the ground.

throwing a snowball at a passing bus

the snow

is soft enough to make

a snowball,

formed round

in my hand,

wet

and hard

from the cold.

but now i need someone

to throw it at,

maybe a passing

car,

or truck, or bus.

i can't miss that, despite

the fact

i'm getting old.

where do i go to view your life?

you never

said a thing about my dog.

my pet,

after he

died.

you ignored it.

let it

slide.

you never called,

never

cried.

never said a word

of comfort

to me.

that's true, i tell him,

but how was i to know

what's

going on in your life,

which social

venue

did you post it on?

another year, just one more

you

know

when it's time to quit.

but you don't.

the job

no longer means

what it used to mean.

it's thinned down

to a weak broth.

your

age is holding you

back.

the stairs

you climb, your

lack

of remembering

what to do.

but they keep you on

for who you were,

the rain man, the glue.

you no longer hear

the whispers.

they keep you

at your desk

in your old grey suit.

they're leaving

the departure

up to you.

the dangling key rings

men,

for years, not all men,

but a lot

of men,

had key rings that they

wore

around their

belt loop.

a dangling set

of keys,

a few pounds of them.

a key

to every lock,

to every door, to each

shed,

and car

they owned.

it was a statement

of some sort.

a fist full of keys

on an extension chain.

it was before fobs,

and

skinny jeans.

before men got manicures.

way before that.

puppy love

i can

tell they're in love.

just by

the way

he's holding her,

one arm

around her waist,

the other petting

her hair,

like you might do

with a Persian cat.

she has a finger

wrapped

around his belt loop

and is leaning

into his neck.

they've recently

made love

it seems,

or are about to for

the third

time today.

you can see it in their

eyes,

that happy

glazed look, tired,

but not

completely out of it.

i remember those

days.

a day of being cheerful

despite

my sore

knee and back, i decide

to be

cheerful today.

i'm going to give it my

best shot.

i will say

hello to people, i'll wave,

and ask

how people are doing,

despite

not really caring

one way or the other.

i'll give way

on the road, letting people

pass and not

blow my horn

when the light turns

green. i'll be polite

and not

judgmental

about what's in people's

shopping cart,

or why

they wobble when

they walk

so slow.

i'm turning over a new

leaf,

for the new month.

let's see how long this

goes.

perhaps, i should stay home.

the bi-monthly writers group

we used

to have a little writing group.

Dave

and Eloise,

Betty

and Lisa.

we drifted away

from the writing class

at the community center,

but stuck together

bi-monthly,

excluding holidays.

three of them chain smoked,

which made

it hard

to breathe.

the overhead fan

spun

slowly

in Betty's yellow kitchen.

i sat by the window, but

it didn't help.

i was drinking Scotch

back then

and

i started writing poems

about them,

and their

nasty habit of smoking.

Dave was working on

a biography of Ben Franklin

and Lisa was

writing television

scripts for Battlestar Galactica.

the room

was grey

and sticky with

nicotine.

they didn't like my poetry,

but i didn't care.

i was trying to get them to stop

in my

passive aggressive way.

three of them have

recently passed away,

cancer and emphysema.

i need a new liver

probably,

but it's all about being

in the writer's game.

they want him gone

i see one potato

rolling

around in the crisper bin.

a fat

redskin potato

that never

made it to the pot.

it makes

a lot of noise

whenever

i open the door.

bouncing from

side to side.

squishing the garlic

and jalapeno

peppers.

the lettuce,

the carrots, the onions

are not

amused.

they want him gone.

what a specimen you are

the car salesman,

is good

at his job, he tells you 

how wonderful

you look,

have you lost

weight,

i can't believe you're

really that age,

he says.

my God what a specimen

you are.

do you run,

lift weights.

there's a gleam about

you.

i bet you get all

the girls, don't you?

wink, wink.

take a stroll

with me down to the back

lot,

have i got a deal for

you.

it came in yesterday,

hardly driven,

never been

in an accident. some old

church lady

dropped it off.

she went to church

and back.

it still has that showroom

smell.

this car is you.

come on, let's take a ride.

hop on inside.

the twenty minute rule

i wait

and wait

and wait, and yet

you

don't show up.

as usual,

you're always late.

it's your

thing,

as they say.

while mine

is leaving

before you arrive.

reading the room

i can

read a room.

feel

what's in the air.

whether

joy,

or happiness,

gloom

or doom, despair.

i can feel it

without a word

being spoken.

either way,

i know when

to leave,

or when to stay, i'm

exhaustingly

well aware.

the culinary road map

i see the road

map

of the weekend on my clothes.

the spills

of wine,

the drips

of gravy.

and

what's that there?

some pie

on my shoe?

whipped cream in

my ear?

searching for real news

i used

to watch the news.

Cronkite

and Rather,

Murrow and Brinkley,

daily,

to catch up on what's

going on

in the world.

but now,

after hearing so many

lies,

and distortions,

biased opinions,

i find

the truth on

the likes of 

YouTube.

though even there,

you have

to take it all with many

grains of salt.

food for a week

as i carry

the six Tupperware

containers

full of  turkey,

gravy,

mashed potatoes,

cranberry sauce,

and pie,

out to the car

in the snow,

i wave with my

gloved hand

as you stand 

with tears in your eyes

at the window.

i remember you

i remember

you.

not your name, or where

you lived,

not your

house

number

or phone number,

not where or how

we met,

but i remember you.

i remember

how you

kissed.

she always ate last

she loved

to see us eat when

at last

she had a little money

in her purse.

turkey,

ham,

lasagna. an assortment

of pies and cakes.

home made rolls

and bread.

her instamatic

camera

clicking away.

she always ate last.

standing in

the kitchen with sweat

on her brow.

the music on her

little radio,

her parakeet in the cage

whistling. oh,

to have

one more holiday

like that.

eating pancakes like a lumberjack

we see

the B list movie star

in

a breakfast joint

in Tribeca.

a celebrity

sighting. 

we both enjoy her work,

so of course

we have to stare

at her.

she's eating

an enormous stack of

pancakes

like a lumberjack would

just coming

in from the cold

snowy forest.

she's talking with

her mouth full

and eating

bacon

with her hands.

there's a glob of grape

jelly on her chin.

we decide

not to like her

anymore.

slow bites

i'm not

reading this new book,

i'm

more or less nibbling

at the pages,

chewing

the words.

then going back for more.

starting over

for a small plate of

plot

and dialogue.

it's that good.

i don't want

it to end.

it reminds me of you,

when we're

together.

the daily dings

my phone

is insistent on sending

me messages

of things

and people i don't care about

anymore.

the ding

is relentless.

a cacophony of non-musical

notes.

i need to find

a twelve

year old,

to straighten out my phone.

nails down a chalkboard

i tell her, with

reluctance, 

that i write confessional

poetry.

none of that Wordsworth

stuff,

or old Robert Frost.

the look

on her

face is priceless.

she thinks

of nails

going down a black board,

or maybe

at the airport,

an annoying mime.

don't worry i tell her.

i will never 

write a word

about you,

which makes her smile,

and exhale a sigh

of relief.

i'm used

to telling such tall

tales,

and lies.

before we trim the tree

there is

a light feeling

of seasonal

joy

in the air.

maybe it's the lights,

the sparkle

of green

blue and red,

the star

like whites,

flowered yellows

strung

along the house.

the smell

of the fir tree in

the corner.,

still wet with the forest.

maybe

it's what's in the oven.

that plate of cookies

on the table.

that red

apron

you're wearing.

maybe it's the mistletoe

you

hung above

the kitchen door.

it almost feels like things

are back

to normal.

why worry?

i used to worry 

about things, mostly

things that i had

no control over.

people

and situations.

i'd toss and turn

all night

so much so that

i barely slept a wink.

i was

nervous all the time.

hungry

for peace of mind.

trying to figure out

the puzzles of

relationships,

the need for

money.

all the attachments

of life. i was

concerned

with my future

and where things were

headed,

but i'm over

that now,

now that the future

has been shortened

considerably.

why worry anymore,

with so little time.

the do not call registry list

i'm on

the do not call list,

the national registry, but

people

keep calling

despite of it.

my mother, my children

my ex-wives

and girlfriends.

the phone company,

the bank,

the pharmacist

the florist.

anyone with a buck

in the game

keeps calling.

old friends going through

hard times,

or good times,

they dial me up.

if the dead could call,

they would.

it's not working this

do not

call list.

at the movies with tiny tank

we found two center

seats

halfway up the aisle,

perfect for viewing

and stretching out.

early birds

we were.

it was

a double feature,

so we bought the big box

of popcorn,

the large

soda

with two straws.

two boxes of candy,

her choice being

dark chocolate

with almonds.

red Twizzlers for me.

something

to gnaw on

and get stuck in my teeth.

would we

make it

through both movies,

plus the intermission

and previews

without

making the whole row

rise up

to let us pass,

when we had to pee?

i made it.

she didn't.

twice she had to go.

tiny tank tiny tank the row

called her,

as she stood up

for number three.

the long path into the woods

we

are mad.

frenetic and woefully

dumb.

we let

the world control

us,

not the other way

around.

we

do what they tell us

to do,

how to act,

how to behave,

what

to consume.

we need the deep

woods

beside a stream,

and a log

cabin,

soon.

taking flight after looking in

the winter

bird on the sill looks

in

at me,

warm

beneath my own feathers.

my own

plate

of food,

my own shallow

dish

of water.

neither of us are

jealous

or worried

of the other though.

making

her flight easier

to

swallow.

Georgia's German Chocolate cake

i met

her in a bar of course.

Georgia

was her

name, though she wasn't

from there.

she was broke

as far

as money went, and i was

broke

as far as love

went.

so we were perfectly

matched.

she wasn't beautiful,

(but who really is?)

her nose

held her back.

and her blue eyes

were crossed a bit,

but i saw beyond all that.

she had other skills.

i took her

to the office Christmas party

that year,

where she

brought along her famous

German Chocolate

cake.

every crumb was eaten.

people were

licking their fingers.

it was shortly after new

year's eve

that we broke up. she

met another

guy with more money.

but she left the recipe

for the cake

on my pillow. i thanked

her for that.

from a mother's arms

it used

to be, back in the old neighborhood

there

was one

crazy guy,

maybe two,

maybe three, but no more

than that.

they each had their

own corner,

or box

to sit on

and preach or have

conversations

with the invisible souls

around them.

they seemed

impervious to weather

never

hurting anyone

that i know of. but people

were

afraid of them

walking

across the street

to avoid

their gaze

and rhetoric.

they were bombs

with the fuse lit,

we thought.

we wondered how did they

get there,

from a mother's arms,

from the warm

crib, and lullaby's,

to this.

who's next?

Beyonce and Oprah need your money

the losing candidate

is in

arrears twenty million dollars

from her

failed campaign.

so she

goes back

online

to butter up her

constituents

for more money,

brother can

you spare a dime

she says with that familiar

cackle.

she pleads

for them to take

another dip into their

empty pockets, 

but she's

half in the tank,

she's on the sauce,

she's into her third bottle

of Nappa wine.

it doesn't go

well,

then the lights go off.

waiting for my turn to talk

i give

the appearance

of listening.

i lean in, and nod.

my eyes

blink

slowly

with comprehension

to every word

you say,

each and every thought.

you speak

is heard to a certain

degree, but i'm

not there.

i'm

elsewhere.

at some point you'll

come up

for air.

and it'll be my turn

to talk.

calling dibs early, on a leg

i remember

my grandmother

in South Philly,

chasing

the turkey with a sharp

hatchet

in her small

hand.

in circles they would

go around

the pear tree,

until one or the other

wore

themselves

out.

usually, her.

and the turkey would

come over

to comfort her.

it was quite

a show,

but i'd close my eyes

when she

got his neck,

at last on the chopping

block.

i already had dibs

on a leg.

the online therapy session

i sign up for the online

therapy session

for a little tune up.

there's a holiday

discount going on, plus

i have

a coupon

from CVS

when i bought some

sleeping

pills and a bottle

of red wine.

when the screen comes

up, i see

a puppy of a boy,

not quite a man,

with peach fuzz.

he's a shaggy dog

come to life.

this is my chosen therapist.

by the end

of the session,

he's crying and i'm giving

him advice

about his girlfriend

and his mother.

and how he should try

and break away,

be on his own.

i give him my number,

and tell him to give me a

call anytime.

i'll take those pajamas as a clue

when she climbs

into bed,

yawning,

with her thick woolen

pajamas,

buttoned

up to her neck,

tight,

i sigh.

i don't have to be

Sherlock Holmes

to figure this out.

maybe in the morning,

i surmise.

toasting in the new year

when

we were young,

and spending

the night at a friend's house.

their

parents,

the wealthier ones,

had liquor cabinets,

with strong

wooden doors

and locks.

impenetrable

cabinets, with glass

on the front.

we could see

the loot,

but we couldn't touch.

we would rarely spend

the night

at those houses.

instead

they came to mine,

where

the whiskey

and wine were

on the counter

with plenty

of cheerful

Christmas mugs.

self-diagnosis at seven a.m.

when

the toes on my left

foot

begin

to tingle. i think of the bone

saw.

how far up

the leg could i

endure

with

some of it missing?

maybe it's the cold

air,

or my

awful circulation,

similar

to my mom's.

maybe i slept wrong.

this bug

bite, on my arm,

is not a tumor,

i tell myself.

Sunday morning bells

the church bells

used

to wake me up on Sunday

morning.

the loud

melodic clangs of the

big iron

bells on top of

St. Thomas More,

in the tower.

a sturdy white cross

hinged to the top.

but the local atheists

got together

and banned the ringing.

some sheep are

thankful,

and some, unfortunately

are still lost.

one book in you

everyone

has at least one book

in them,

that they

want or need to write

before

the lights go off.

the story of their life.

but not everyone

wants to read them.

the Jamaican tree frog

there was

a time

when everyone,

or nearly

everyone wanted a red

dining room,

or a red

accent wall.

maybe

a peacock blue

bedroom,

or a bright orange,

or granny

apple green

kitchen.

i carried

the speckles of these

paints on my

hands and face for

weeks.

often mistaken for

a Jamaican

tree frog, minus

the squeak.

in the midnight hour

she taps

me on the shoulder

and says,

are you awake?

i am now, i tell her.

i heard

a noise,

she says.

downstairs, i think

someone

is in the house.

the kitchen light

is on.

no worries, we're good,

i tell her.

it's an ex

of mine.

i told her to come over

and get

her leftover

yogurt and salmon

from the fridge.

she still has my keys.

it's good, she's

back on her meds.

she won't kill

us.

go back

to sleep.

back to pen and paper

the screen

is slow in coming up, 

what's with

this cold

curve ball of buffering?

i've

already

lost three

potential poems

when waiting.

maybe i should go back

to the pen

and paper.

candle light, the butter

churn,

and cans

attached to string

to call you.

it's health

it's health,

it's health,

it's health, of course

at any

age.

but a little dough

rey me

goes a long way

too.

not all of them have red hair

each

crowd has a bully.

each school

yard,

each work office,

or job,

has a bully on it.

each family.

you can

usually see them

in their cars,

in traffic, speeding,

red faced,

and cursing,

tailgating an

inch a way

from bumpers

as they flash their

lights.

they can't help

themselves.

and strangely not

all of them

have red hair.

the four-tiered shoe rack

sorry but i have no

room

for your red high heels.

my four tiered

shoe rack is full,

leaning

forward

heavy with so many

old shoes.

each

with a point, a purpose.

basketball,

running,

football cleats

with cobwebs,

the mud now dry.

brown and black

dancing shoes.

wedding shoes.

funeral shoes,

court room shoes.

tuxedo shoes.

tennis shoes,

and slip on loafers.

walking

shoes. blue

slippers for when

i go out

down the sidewalk

to get the daily

news.

maybe it's time to get

a rack for you.

the upper hand of silence

something

about

a holiday that makes me

weak

in the knees

with forgiveness.

my heart strings

are pulled,

wanting to put aside

past disagreements.

i buy a bushel

of olive

branches to hand out.

some take them,

others don't.

they prefer in keeping

the upper

hand

of silence.

and so it goes.

who's running this place?

you wonder

at times, who is really running

the country,

the executive branch

that is.

they take

so many vacations.

they disappear

onto islands

and beaches,

stretch out

beneath umbrellas,

away from questions

and staircases

that they

stumble up

or down.

they relax with

drinks in hand, the sea

in front of them,

eyes closed

to the world behind

them.

are their phones even

on?

or have they totally 

checked out?

done and gone.

the police report

you rarely

hear

the word brandish,

or use it in general

conversation

except when

it comes

to weapons and a cop

describing

the scene of the crime

and it's

perpetrators.

the three miscreants,

the report reads,

were all approximately

three foot two or

shorter, males,

chewing gum,

and blowing bubbles,

they were all standing

over the broken gumball

machine

brandishing wooden

mallets

apparently stolen from

their mother's

cooking utensil drawer.

the weapons

have been seized

and they boys have been taken

downtown

for questioning,

after using the bathroom,

under guard,

at McDonald's.

dark or white meat

finally

the talk of politics

settles

down.

and we sit in peace,

at least

for now.

dark meat for me, please,

i tell the host,

as she

slices

with her electric

knife

into the enormous

dead beast.

dropping the f bomb because i dropped the butter

i've noticed

this year

that i've been cursing more,

dropping

the F bomb

on occasion,

for the smallest

of inconveniences

or annoyances.

i never used to.

i think it has something

to do with the shrinking

of my frontal lobe.

but i don't mind.

finally i get to say what

i want to say

without recriminations.

people just shake their

heads and sigh,

and say. hey, it's okay,

he's old.

The Elon wife

Elon

reminds me of my ex-wife,

but without

the deep

pockets

and the brain power,

or lack

of a single job.

she wanted to buy everything

she saw

in a store window,

house or car,

boat,

or piece of jewelry.

how much

for that, she'd ask me.

we can't afford it,

i'd tell her,

rolling my eyes and

shaking my head.

well, why can't you work

harder?

get a second or third

job, so that we can.

Elon does it, Bill Gates

does it,

why can't you?

the home invasion

my neighbor,

Jack,

had his home invaded

by a group

of masked

young women.

they tied

him up,

and took his silverware

and his

cash,

his phone, and all of

the rib eye steaks

in his fridge.

the brownies

that were frozen.

they stayed for over

an hour,

played his music

and danced,

drank until the wine

ran out.

they made a nice fire

in the fireplace

and moved

his chair

closer to keep him warm.

one girl

loosened the ropes

around his wrists,

then they left him,

unharmed.

they even locked

the door

behind them.

he seemed strangely happy for

the visit.

when i talked to him,

but sad now

to be alone.

God's fault again

maybe

it's a rash. a bee bite,

a sting,

a nibble

from a passing spider,

or some

nearly

invisible thing.

the brush

of skin

against a toxic

leaf.

God's sense

of humor,

is endless, it seems

hospital food

i don't like

hospital food, so i do

my best

to not visit

them.

the stay

is hard.

the confusion

of illness

and death.

everyone

as busy

as bees

in spring.

the tapioca in small

cups,

the Jello,

the Salisbury steak,

the button

to push,

the ominous ding.

diminishing skills

the cold

orange from the ice

box is a project

you

can handle.

unlike many

things

in life these days.

the cut and slice, the

stripping

of the hard

peel is difficult,

but it's in your

skill set.

you haven't lost

it yet.

by the way, the world is about to end

as i stand

at the window,

sipping on a cold bottle

of coca cola,

a pretzel

in hand,

i see off in the short

distance

where

the White House is,

and see

the beautiful bloom

of a mushroom.

cloud.

and in the roar

of wind,

i turn

to my wife,

and say, i love you

dear.

and by the way, the world

is about to end.

the poisoned pen

there a few if any

real

newsmen

anymore,

true journalists

out there

on the beat with

pen and pad

in hand,

going in for the story.

nothing

less, nothing more.

typing it

up for the daily news.

to feed

to morning eyes

over coffee.

letting them decide

which way

to lean, 

from these

written truths.

not telling them

how to live their

lives.

the morning splash of cold water

there is something

about the cold

splash

of morning water,

winter

water, from the icy

pipes,

into your cupped hands,

then thrown

upon your face

that changes everything.

but for a moment

and then the hope

wears off.

the big brown Idaho potato

what are

these things? these small

multicolored

potatoes,

no bigger

than large pebbles

in a stream.

who made these 

exotic things?

as a kid

i remember

one potato.

a fat brown lumpy

thing

bought in meshed bags

of twenty

pounds

that my mother

boiled

then mashed

and added butter

and milk to.

gravy was a luxury,

but how quickly

we ate them down.

body language

it's not the words

that matter,

coming out

of their mouth.

it's their eyes,

their hands, how

they stand,

how they 

project their shoulders,

the lean

of their head.

the tapping foot,

how they pull at an ear,

or strand of hair.

don't listen to what

they say.

the truth lies deeper

inside that

dark

and glazed stare.

my ten year old could have done a better job

i tell

the young woman,

full

of new money,

to not touch the wallpaper,

it needs

to dry and settle

itself onto the wall.

don't pick

at it.

turn the light off and close

the door.

but no.

instead,

she rubs and pulls,

tugs

at the seams,

she washes it down

with a bucket

of water.

and in the morning she

calls me

and tells

me that it's a mess now,

the sheets have

buckled,

it's falling down.

her husband

says that

their ten year old could

have done

a better job.

i send them back their

check.

i move on.

the last one to leave

if you

knew that your demise

was tomorrow.

what would you change,

or do.

would you be kinder,

more patient,

eat all the sweet things

in the house,

book a flight to Paris,

or say at last

all the things you've

stored

and kept inside your

mouth?

or would you just

quietly lie down,

and whisper. i'm good.

the last one to leave,

please, let the dog in

and put the cat out.

what exactly do they all do?

i pay

little notice to the king

or queen,

what

each prince

or princess is up to.

i see

no reason to muddle

up

my already

muddled brain

with such

things.

but there seems to be

a fascination

with it all.

so strange, this interest

in royalty

that doesn't

reign.

once slice at a time

i like

a woman or man,

for that matter

who is proud of the pie

they took

the time to bake.

see how they smile

when they

set it on the table,

centered,

gleaming below

the light.

it's what happiness

is to them,

the first careful

slice, your first bite.

i can't get off this train

i'm going nowhere fast,

speeding

through the darkness

of tunnels,

past the fields

of nothing.

past

the cities full of

everything.

i pull

the string

on the speeding train,

but it won't stop.

i can't get off.

it's taking me to 

places

i know nothing about.

once more,

i'll be lost.

stealing poetry

i am the fox

in the hen house

stealing

them one by one.

each

clever

line of poetry i find

in these old

books

of mine.

i eat them whole,

some

simmer

on the fire,

the hot stove, others

i boil

and drink the broth

made

from their bones.

small potatoes in hand

small

potatoes, this handful

of money

is.

it pays

the bills, feeds you,

gets you

from point A to point B.

it's enough.

more than enough

to keep

you off the street.

which pleases you.

to no end.

earned

the hard way

with blood, sweat

and tears.

by back and hand.

God bless

the child who

has his own

as the long day ends.

the fire alarm again

it's a false

alarm,

and yet, what if the building

is really

on fire.

we look out the windows

for smoke

or flames from

above and below.

no fire trucks

have appeared so far.

no ladders

are on the walls,

with men

in black coats.

maybe

it's just

burnt toast

again.

i really don't want to

go downstairs

in my slippers

and robe.

when the ex-wife returns

he was old,

much older than her,

in a wheelchair, hardly

there,

mumbling

his words,

but she was able

to move

his hand across the newly

written will.

the house,

the cars,

the money in the bank,

will at last

all be hers.

good job, honey, she

said,

then went out to celebrate

with the girls.

no need to make a list

i never

think about cranberries

until

three days before the holidays.

and then

i buy a bag.

it's the same

with pumpkins,

and 

mincemeat

pies.

sunscreen in July.

the world

reminds us daily,

of things we

need to buy.

the out the door price

there's always

a hidden cost.

something you didn't figure

into

the out the door price,

there's taxes

of course.

state, local, and government.

undercoating,

delivery fees,

and the clear coat over

the paint,

you can't forget that.

tags, title

and registration,

two sets of keys.

not to mention

miscellaneous

which could be anything.

oh, and you want 

all weather mats

and a spare tire

too? okay.

let's add that on.

nothing is free.

except a bottle of water

and coffee.

the election hangover

i hear

her crying next door.

she's shaved

her head.

she even shaved her dog

in protest.

her white cat

now dyed blue.

sometimes

she pounds on the walls,

stomps

her feet,

throws things.

she hasn't gone out

of the house

since the vote

was counted,

except to put her

recycling bin at the curb.

i wave

and say hello,

but get no response,

she seems

very perturbed about

something.

maybe tomorrow?

the end

of the world as we know

it

has been

coming for sometime

now.

and yet,

here we are,

raking leaves,

drinking coffee,

shopping,

and watching tv.

maybe later we'll go

for a nice

walk

through the woods,

down

by the cold

blue stream.

doing the dishes

i like doing the dishes.

it's a challenge

and it gets

me out of small talk

in the living room.

i'll bring out the coffee

and dessert,

then tell them all,

this will just take a few

minutes.

i fill the sink with hot

water and suds,

and go at it.

scrubbing away,

filling up the dishwasher

fork and spoons,

plates and bowls,

the big pans,

one by one.

i wipe all the counters

and sweep the floor.

sometimes i sing to myself.

quietly,

happy that the night

is nearly done.

buyers remorse

it's hard

to make a large

purchase

without having some sort

of buyers remorse.

the used car,

the beat up house,

the restored

computer.

as soon as you walk

out the door

after writing the check

or saying 

i do, in the church,

you feel as if

you've done

something wrong.

just my style

i wonder

sometimes what happened to penny

karr.

the pale

girl

in art class

with the blue framed

glasses.

she looked

ill

most of the time,

but had

a great half

smile.

ala mona lisa,

or 

perhaps 

Flannery O'Conner's child.

mysterious, and clever,

just my

style.

finally turning the heat on

i find my dog

under

the bed wrapped

in a comforter, he's shivering.

his teeth

chattering up

at storm.

the cat

is inside

my sweater,

wearing

a hat and mittens.

there's a sheet of ice

on the goldfish

bowl.

their eyes are bugging

out as they rub

their fins

together.

burrowing inside

the little

plastic castle.

my wife is in the car,

smoking

a cigarette

with the car running.

drinking shots

of tequila.

okay, okay. i get it.

i'll turn the heat on.

the wet envelopes

the new mail

person

has forgotten her umbrella,

her coat

and her pith

helmet,

so the mail

is all wet from the rain.

the ink

is smeared

on each envelope.

the addresses

and names

are unreadable.

i lie

all of them out by

the fireplace,

and let them dry,

they bend

towards the heat.

each day

is never the same.

we still have time to decide

the day

can't decide which

day to be.

shall we be

cold

and windy,

sunny and bright,

warmer

than we should be?

maybe a little rain

to wet

the ground. or just

overcast

and grey,

or blue skies?

it's early yet, 

no rush,

we still have time

to decide.

horses and girls

she used

to point

our her scars, and then

name

the horse

that she fell off of.

that scar

there on my femur bone,

six months

in rehab,

was Trixie.

this scar

around my neck was

Buddy,

as you can see i can't

turn my

head to the right

anymore.

and

this scar

running down my

spine

and the one on my knee,

is from a fall i took

off of

Belle, my favorite horse,

and what about this

scar on your chin.

oh, that.

that's from my ex-husband,

George,

after he

saw the barn rent

and vet bill.

keep going, we have enough

we don't need

unidentified flying objects,

or strange

beings,

green aliens

from a far-off galaxy

to visit

and make a mess

of things. please,

keep going and don't

land here.

we already

have enough entertainment

and trouble

with our

own deranged

species.

jaguar car commercial

the old car

commercials showed

the car.

the inside,

the shiny outside.

they kicked the tires

and popped

the hood to show you

the engine,

or the spacious trunk,

then they took it

for a spin

down the highway

with two

happy people

enjoying

the music and the wind

with

children

and a dog in the back

seat.

and now

it's a group

of painted circus clowns

of unknown origin,

staring glumly

at the camera.

saying nothing

with no car to be seen.

go away, i'm not home

i'm wary

of the phone. the knock

at the door.

someone

peering

into the window, rapping

on the pane.

what is it now?

who

and why

are they here?

how do they know my

name?

i thought we were

done

with all that socializing.

i need to keep

the lights turned down.

it was yesterday, wasn't it?

how quickly

the child

grows out of his shoes.

his pants,

and shirts.

how long his or her

arms

have grown.

and then they're gone.

it was yesterday

when

we brought them

home,

wasn't it?

the window of youth

i turn the yard

chair

to the sun.

the low new

winter

sun.

a pale white

cream

of warmth.

that's good, now.

i close

my eyes, like i've

always

done.

i settle into

the memory

of youth,

until the coolness

of shade

takes away the fun.

making children

it's a block

of stone,

but already 

he sees the beauty

in what

is to become,

a sculptured

vision 

has already

begun.

we see

that in our children

too,

but

sometimes,

despite our earnest

efforts,

we're wrong.

the first of everything

it's our first car,

a junk heap,

with blue smoke

pouring out of the exhaust,

but it runs, our first

apartment

on the ground floor,

with the trash

room next door,

and the bongo

drums heard

through the thin walls.

it's our first job,

punching the clock,

the boss you hate,

the work

numbing you,

day after day.

our first wardrobe

filling the closet

of things we'll never

wear again

in a year or so.

a leather vest? really?

and then there's the

first marriage.

what we're we thinking?

i don't know.

what about carrots, mom?

i call up

my mother up to ask her

how

long can i keep carrots

in the

crisper drawer

at the bottom

of the fridge.

the plastic bag seems

to be bubbling

for some reason.

why don't you just

eat them,

she says,

are they brown?

no, they're still orange,

i tell her.

but i don't know why

i bought them

last November.

boil

them in a pot, she says,

then

when they're nice and soft,

drench them in

honey,

or maple syrup,

or a ton

of butter with salt

and pepper.

they're more edible

that way.

to kill the after taste

wash them down with milk,

or spiked eggnog.

okay, but what about

lettuce?

you have two days max,

she says,

then toss it.

maybe throw it in the woods

for the animals.

blood on their hands

is it mental illness,

this confusion about who you

are,

man or woman, or

somewhere

in between?

it's suddenly

a fad

to not know

a thing about biology.

why go to therapy,

or seek psychiatric help

when there's

a surgeon

willing to cut loose

the body parts

you were born with.

they are making

a killing,

as well

as the drugstore

filling

these half beings

with pharmaceuticals

to keep

them alive

post-surgery.

it seems

just a tad insane.

i prefer not to faint

i eat meat.

red meat.

steaks of all kinds,

chuck roasts,

T-bone,

angus and prime.

etc.

but i eat

pork and poultry

as well,

some fish too,

on rare

occasions i might

have a salad

when i'm in the mood

for a food

that offers little

but in the way

of protein.

same goes for vegetables,

leaving me hungry

immediately

after i'm through.

Morning Joe

the news

pundits are despondent.

the purveyors

of gloom

and doom

and wild claims

are sad.

now what?

they say.

how can we go on

without this

election

process and

the daily bashing

for a decade

of the other candidate?

we need a new slant

on things

now that's he won

by a landslide.

perhaps

we should ask for

forgiveness,

fly to Florida

with our tail between

our legs 

and kiss his ring.

the adjustment period

you can

always tell the newly

divorced men

in the neighborhood.

they look

sad and bewildered

as they carry

in their leftover

furniture.

it's college all over

again,

but they have a nice

car.

they're not quite

ready to wave

and make new friends.

no Christmas

decorations will go up,

no wreathe on the door.

you'll see their

recycling bin full of

bottles though.

filing away your permanent record

there's a point,

after years of knowing

someone, or shorter,

where you come to a conclusion

about them.

you file

away your opinion

of who they really are

into your internal

file cabinet.

from that point on, you

have them figured out.

it's their permanent

record,

and then,

they behave in an entirely

different way,

throwing a monkey wrench

into your whole

belief system.

surprised you shake

your head,

and say, ah oh,

now I have to find

that report

to make corrections.

what's in a name

her name

was Dorothy, but her friends

called

her Doro,

or Dorito,

or D for short.

they were always telling

her

to click her heels together,

we want to go home.

but it got old

after a while.

i asked her to change her

name,

which she refused to do.

this is who

i am, she told me.

how would you like it

if i called

you Sam, or Joe,

or Frankie?

i'd be okay with it, i told her.

a pill for everything but common sense

after a while

you suspect that the medical

world

wants to keep

you sick.

rarely do they point out

the bad

food you are eating, the lack

of exercise,

the cigarettes or

drinking.

they don't want to offend

you, be sued

for character defamation.

but they will

give you pills

by bucket full.

why change your lifestyle

when we can

give you this.

and in the end, they'll know

there

is very little privacy

these days.

everyone

knows

almost everything about you.

type

in the name.

and away you go.

where you live,

your income, your children,

your marriages,

the work you do,

how much you owe.

at some point

even your death will

be recorded,

listing how

you died

for those who need to know.

everything going south

i have

no choice

but to eat the half gallon

of ice cream.

the power is

out and everything is

melting,

everything is going

bad,

going sour.

i have a chicken

in the oven,

i'm scrambling eggs,

drinking

milk.

i'm on the floor, with

a wet

towel

soaking

up the ice pond

growing,

with the big spoon digging

into the soft

cool mountain

of rocky road.

click here, on this link

it used

to be that one had to worry

about pickpockets

when in the city,

or town,

or in a crowded

movie.

they were clever

thieves,

dipping into your pockets

so swiftly

for wallets

and keys.

you rarely noticed 

the stealth hand

sifting

through your jacket

or pants.

but things are different now.

click here,

click on this 

highlighted link,

is all they need to take

most everything.

paying out hush money

enamored

by her pig tails

and blue

framed

glasses, her freckles

and long

white

arms

and legs.

the fastest girl in

our 5th grade class.

i kissed her in the hallway,

which made

her scream

and scratch me across

the face,

but she promised

not to

report me to the principal

or parents

if i gave her

my lunch money

for the next

two years.

looks can be deceiving.

Moe the Hoover

when i had a dog,

it was okay

to be clumsy with food,

to eat cookies,

or toast in bed.

to bring a sandwich

to the couch

and let the crust fall

to the floor,

with

a piece of Swiss cheese,

or ham

slipping out

of my hand.

Moe

took care of that.

he was a living Hoover,

on the job

24-7, 

but wise to the hot peppers

and coffee

grounds.

the lovers path

i go off the trail,

deep

into the woods, 

out to where hikers

rarely go,

to where the signs

and markers end,

to where

the path is overgrown,

and the bones

are everywhere.

i see where the sun is in

the sky,

and measure

the time i have and the distance

i'll need

to travel to get

to the other side.

i follow the moss

on the north

trunk of the trees.

at last, not a can or bottle,

or piece of

trash

is on the ground.

and then i see two people

on the ground

before me,

making love in the weeds.

i tell them, excuse me,

please, don't get up,

i'm just passing through.

practice run

i buy the practice

pie,

the whipped cream.

shaking the can

madly

in the car. i put

the turkey

fillets

in the pan, cook,

the dressing and potatoes.

i stuff

the black olives

with cream cheese

like my mother

used to do.

i even run through a short

dinner

time prayer.

folding my

hands together, and thanking

God

for all things.

and putting in a request

for good

weather

and a sensible gravy

recipe.

in another week, i'll have

it all down.

a little mystery

a little mystery

is good.

keeps

things interesting.

but too

much mystery

will drive

you crazy.

a short drive

to begin with

i must add.

painting your nails black

it took

months of digging,

scratching

at the concrete

wall

with a spoon,

but eventually i made

a large

enough hole

to crawl out of.

i tunneled my way

to the fence

and wall,

digging deeper

into the ground until i

was past the guards

and guard dogs,

and then i

ran, not looking back.

with you

up in the tower,

oblivious to my leaving,

painting your

nails black.

splendid isolation

in typical

Bukowski fashion,

he says,

it's not that i hate people,

it's just

that i feel better

when i'm not around

them.

you've felt that way

for years

now.

living in splendid

isolation.

my left hand

i don't understand

why

my left hand

is no good for so many

things.

i can't write with it,

throw a ball

effectively with it,

play a guitar,

or turn a screw with

it.

i'm disappointed in

my left hand

and arm.

i've had them forever

and yet they still

haven't learned a thing,

or caught on.

dead batteries

i have a box

full

of batteries,

somewhere.

all kinds, all sizes,

triple A,

double A, single

A.

the little rectangular shaped

ones,

the round

ones,

the fat and skinny

ones.

i wish i could find

where i put

that bag,

but the house is dark

and the flashlight

is dead.

waiting for Clooney to tell us what to do

it used

to be that celebrities

could sell

cars

and wine, clothes,

and candy

bars.

presidents, too.

just a word from them,

sent us

out to the stores

to buy

the things they chose,

we even

pulled the lever

on who to vote for

because

of their

shiny cinematic

glow.

they must be right

about everything

we told

ourselves,

but things have changed,

no one cares

anymore what

they do.

it's the opposite now.

the aftermath

i guess we're

not friends anymore.

i haven't heard from

them since,

November 5th.

Laurie

and Joann,

Kimberly

and Julie.

Josh and John,

my mother and

aunt Betty.

not a peep out of any

of them.

i can't imagine what's

gone wrong.

that sneaking suspicion

she had

her own P.O.

box.

all of her mail went

there,

despite

the fact that we were

married

and living in the same

house.

was i wrong

to be suspicious?

and when

i saw

the new jewelry

she was wearing around

her wrist,

and the bite

marks on her neck,

i said to myself,

something's going on

here,

and why was she going out

jogging

in her high heels,

wearing red lipstick

and perfume?