family outing

after

midnight, my brother

and i, hungry,

we'd

roll out to a hamburger

joint

for food.

it wasn't long before

a patrol

car

was behind us with his

party lights

on.

where you going,

why are

you out so late,

do you mind stepping

out of the car,

have you been

drinking or

smoking dope?

does your mother know

where you

are.

your father?

ask her, she's in the back

seat

with paw.

pull over

some

towns you stop in.

you eat.

you take a break from the road.

you find

a diner,

a restroom,

you park the car

and get out.

you stretch in the warm sun,

or cold.

nothing of importance

will happen here,

in this short

stop,

but you'll remember it

for the rest of

your life

for reasons unknown.

his weaknesses

my mother

knew

my father's weaknesses.

bean

soup,

a winter stew.

apple pie

and ice cream.

a hot toddy

with a shot of whiskey,

and lingerie

with the days of the weeks

embroidered

on each

sheer piece

clothing.

a new sidewalk is coming soon

because we drew

our initials

inside

a heart on the wet

cement

ten years

ago,

it didn't mean we'd

last forever.

a week

and then we were done.

but i'm so looking

forward for the jackhammer

to arrive,

the steam rollers

too.

thankfully unlike you

i never was

tempted by an ink

filled tattoo.

i'm looking out the window

the postman

delivers,

the pizza man,

the chicken

sandwich man,

the milkman,

Amazon

and UPS,

FedEx.

they all have a big

truck that pulls

up in front of my

house

to bring me gifts

from afar.

rain, or snow,

a sheet of ice,

it doesn't matter,

they come,

so why can't you?

a wave of common sense

like a breath

of fresh air,

a wave of common sense

floats through

the window.

clarity is spoken.

the adults are in the room

once more.

sanity is restored.

prayers are answered,

let's fix what's broken

and move

forward.

brother can you spare a pill

when my

father turned 90, he called

me

and asked me if i could

order him

some Viagra

on my cell phone.

apparently he thought

cells phones

were also pill dispensers.

i told him

no.

no way. i'm not going to be

the one to kill

you.

you'd be taking those pills

like Fred Flintstone

vitamins waiting

for the sun

to rise.

but, he said. i've been dating

this new

babe i met at bingo.

and i don't want to start something

with her

that i can't finish.

is she in a wheelchair?

i ask him,

no, no, she's quite mobile,

and has

a walker.

call your doctor, i told him.

and maybe

a lawyer.

the inheritance check arrives

the million dollar

check arrives.

the inheritance check.

i've never seen so many zeros

on a check

with my name on it.

what will i do with so much money?

so many ways

to go with it.

give some to the poor,

or make conservative

investments, 

perhaps an around the world

trip.

a new car,

a boat,

maybe an addition

on the house.

plastic surgery and hair

plugs.

a new wardrobe.

a fancy watch?

or do nothing except fix

that squeaky

belt in the washing machine

that drives me nuts.

becoming Batman

watch

enough tv

enough movies on cable,

when stuck inside

due to

three feet of snow,

watch enough

series,

enough shows

about being a doctor

or a lawyer,

you start talking like one.

you can make

yourself believe

that

you too could be a judge,

a scientist

a policeman,

or Batman.

you too could save the world,

if you could

just get out

of these sweat

pants and flip flops

and leave

the house.

is there something i need?

do i really need to venture

out into

this icy

world to buy something

at the store?

my legs

say yes, my mind, says

go for it.

come on,

there must be something

that you need,

something you're

lacking

not in the cupboard

or ice box.

think about it, think hard.

it's just a few miles

away.

go dig out the car,

brush the snow off the

windshield.

just go and fill up

an empty cart.

you're out of Oreo cookies,

aren't you?

a new Sheriff in town

in an act

of kindness, a parting gift

to his

loyal

followers, the lame

duck

president pardons

every person

in Hollywood

that sent him money

or who voted

for the cackling VP.

his arm and hand

aches with

carpal tunnel syndrome.

it's a busy night by candle

light,

as he goes through

the lists

of scientists and journalists,

who might

be indicted on crimes

against the nation,

mayors and congressmen

and women.

senators.

the entire cast of the View

and MSNBC.

teachers and lawyers.

university presidents.

the whole messy left,

is quaking

in their boots,

wondering if they're next

when

the new Sheriff in town

starts making arrests.

a visit in the spring

i'll come up in the spring,

i tell her

on the phone.

i'll pay you a visit.

but i'm lying.

i won't take the time,

or make the drive.

we've long since gone

our separate ways,

still friends, 

friends for life,

but now we've

strayed too far away.

the permanent stain

i know

before the drip from this

cup,

this loose

lid,

that i'll never

get this coffee stain

out of my

white shirt.

its fate is sealed.

the brown

stain

has been absorbed.

i let out a small

soft curse,

but move on.

some lessons are

learned

and learned, some

are often worn.

take it and go

the open

door,

full of sunlight

and

blue skies

is wide open this morning.

those

are birds

flying high,

those are smiles,

wings

against white clouds.

this is the road

ahead,

not behind.

take it

and go.

the numbered seven page hand written letter

as i sift through my

grandmother's letters

sent to my father,

in the last year of her life.

i see how much she loved

to write.

the flow of it all,

the stories,

she had to get out

by

the gliding of her hand

in old school

cursive.

each sentence a juicy

bite of a sweet

peach,

but some sour long

the way as well.

black gossip and complaining,

though always ending

on a sunny note,

i love you my dear boy,

my son, my life.

followed by a dozen

x's and o's.

when limbs fall asleep

my arm

has fallen asleep

in the cold

night

during an uneventful

dream

that i take note of

on my

little pad

on the nightstand.

i observe

the lifeless form

of my left hand

and forearm,

the tingling

of nerves.

the strange warmth

into the shoulder.

but i expect the feeling

to return

before long.

i'm very hopeful,

quite

optimistic, in fact,

and then the leg

too.

a very large crowd at the game

when you

take a look at the massive crowd,

in their

bright blue jerseys

at the big game, it occurs

to you

that the city must have

closed every

Denny's

and dive joint

around

for the day.

all the patrons and waitresses,

and short order

cooks are here,

chanting

go team.

ten more minutes, then forgiveness

we live

near church bells.

they remind us on Sunday

morning

of our

sins.

we should go sometimes,

she says.

punch the clock

occasionally

with God

to let him know we're

still

all in.

ten more minutes of

sleep,

i tell her.

just ten.

when you're whipped

why are we

here?

he asks his wife as they march

through

the streets

and parks

with signs.

down the boulevard,

in the face

of sleet

and ice.

she looks at him

and rolls

her eyes, we're here for

me,

for women's rights.

and what exactly

are the rights

that you don't have,

exactly?

he says,

checking his phone for the

scores of

games he's missing.

shut up, she says.

and if you keep asking

dumb questions

like that,

you won't get anything

tonight.

Sailing the Seven Seas

there are boxes

inside of boxes and then

at last

an old yellow cigar box

stuffed with

paper.

i've struck gold.

therein

lies the letters,

the little black book.

the history

of his love life

from day one until the end.

i ignore the smell

of old smoke and dig

in to read about

the woman

from Barcelona,

one from Italy 

another from France.

someone from

Seoul Korea.

picture enclosed.

all with beautiful handwriting,

the envelopes

perfumed.

they tell my father

that they love him

and can't wait to see him

again

when his ship comes in.

they can't wait for him

to meet

the children he's never met,

all who look just

like him.

baby it's cold out there

i should have

been

a weatherman.

like them,

i'm right only half the time

about nearly

everything.

but instead

of looking out

the window,

or using high tech maps

and satellites,

Dopler radar,

i go by feelings, by

how much

my bones ache

or my

sinuses clog.

i can get within one inch

of a snowfall

or just a degree

or two off with the wind

chill,

when the wind

blows.

plus i'm good with a pointer,

often

using my umbrella

to show my dog

where to lift a leg

and go.

watching the big game with Amber

thrilled that my

favorite team was in the playoffs,

i invited

my new love interest over to watch

the big game.

she was a former cheerleader,

and currently

a yoga instructor

at the local

community center.

she brought

the chips and cheese over,

the wings

and wine.

gluten free cupcakes for dessert.

we snuggled on the couch,

giving each

other a high five,

and then

the game started.

it wasn't long though before she

asked me

what the lines on the field

were for.

and why do they kick

the ball sometimes

and other times they throw it.

how come they

keep running the ball up the middle

where all the other

players are?

they don't seem to go anywhere

when they do that.

and who are those men

in striped shirts like zebras,

with the whistles.

they act like they're the boss

of everyone?

i looked deeply into

her beautifully vacant

blue eyes and sighed,

then went to the cupboard

for the tequila

and shot glasses.

thankfully she had other

plans

for halftime.

waiting in line for my life to change

as i stand

in line at the 7-11 eating

a hot dog,

bundled

up from the cold,

ankle deep

in ice

and snow,

i wait my turn to buy

another

mega millions ticket.

i dream

about what i'll do with

all the money.

the mansions i'll buy,

the cars,

the villa

in Rome,

the lingerie models

i'll get to know.

celebrities,

maybe i'll have my own

podcast show.

i'll buy suits made of silk.

shivering and stamping my feet,

i look over at my wife

and three kids,

waiting in the car,

blowing the horn.

they want their donuts

and Doritos,

their big gulps,

their beef jerky to chew on.

the contortionist

home

is where you can

rinse

a cup

in the sink,

and with your left

foot

close

the dishwasher,

or open

the lid

to the trashcan,

tossing

an empty can

across the room

and landing

it square

in the middle.

all at the same time

while talking

on the phone,

secured

in the crook of your

neck.

on the road again

he asks

me if i have room in my house.

an extra

bed or couch,

somewhere to crash

until

hell freezes over.

his wife,

has changed the locks

on the doors,

put all of his belongings

in the yard.

it seems like

just yesterday

when they were drinking

champagne

and eating cake.

but he's still wearing

his wedding band,

so i guess there's hope.

twilight lovers

my father's 

most recent and final lover,

and i use

that term

with

a grimace on my face

and

trepidation,

is

in mourning.

even in their tenth

decade

on earth,

they found a way

to ease

the pain

of aging.

there's an emptiness

in her

that is no

different than anyone's.

she tells

me

she's lost on Wednesdays

and Sundays,

not knowing what to do

with herself.

so which is it

it's fate,

it's destiny, or stupidity.

bad luck.

divine intervention?

pick one

and go

with it.

the wrong left turn.

the wrong

side

of the bed.

the timing of it all.

a second later,

a minute

sooner.

if only

i'd done this

or that,

instead.

welcome Greenland

there's unlimited

ice

and fish,

haddock

and lobster,

whale blubber for oil.

God knows

what's under

the frozen tundra of

Greenland,

minerals and gold.

let's plant the flag

and go for it.

make it a new starter

home.

once the changing climate

kicks in

with warmer

weather,

it'll be just like Idaho.

i'm sold.

the three month no refund yoga class

i'm listening,

sort of, to my friend

Betty talk about her cat,

but i'm

half in and half out

of the conversation.

things

are on my mind.

i'm worried

and anxious

about so much.

money, old age,

the weather

and politics.

all the meditation

and yoga

i've been doing

since the new year started

seems not to be

working.

i've spent so many

hours

staring at candles

and opening up

my third eye,

and for what?

i'm still the mess i was

before i bought

this yoga mat and tights,

before i

swiped my credit card,

and signed up.

your Saturday clothes

it happens.

your Saturday clothes

become 

your Monday clothes.

the shorts

and tennis shoes, the t-shirts

and hats.

the blue

and black suits,

the ties

and dress shirts

and shoes

are in the closet,

waiting for what will

never come.

maybe

a funeral or wedding,

will allow

them once more

to see the sun.

more of an inside guy

i have thumbs,

but

neither is green.

plants

die

in my presence

bushes

curl up

and burn.

the trees lose

their leaves,

the roses

bend

and break, die.

the yard is dirt.

i'm more of an inside

guy.

a new face to live with

i wake up

as someone else.

i look into the mirror

and don't

recognize my face.

my eyes

are of a different color.

where is the blue?

my skin

is pale. younger.

whose ears are these.

whose

hair?

should i go back to bed

and start

over,

or live with it?

i've been tired of myself

for some time

now. perhaps,

this would be a good change.

no one will

know me.

all of my mistakes will be

erased.

we just don't get along dagnabit

it's impossible

to love

every sibling, despite

the DNA

connection,

the blood, the parents,

being raised

in the same house,

eating the same

food,

and sometimes sharing

the same bed.

some of them

you don't like and they

don't like you.

and there's nothing you

can do about it.

it's strange,

but not unusual from

what i hear

on the street

and from a slew of

therapists.

lost and never found

i leave

my gloves on the bus,

brand new,

a leather pair

from Christmas.

my hat

is in the theater,

my wallet

is on the floor

at my doctor's office.

the umbrella

is in a cart

at the grocery store.

and now,

i can't find my car

without my

glasses,

left in a restroom

at a happy hour

bar.

i can beat that

he once

told me,

over drinks,

that for him

there was no

greater feeling of hopelessness

and depression

than when he was

lying

in a hard bed

in a roadside motel,

while a cold rain fell

in the gravel lot

outside.

he told me that he had

no job

prospects

ahead,

and that his doctor found

a shadow

on his x-rays,

near his heart.

i nodded, that's rough,

i said,

that's bad,

but you've never

met my last wife,

have you?

plowing the field

we need

our hands on something.

whether with

a hammer

or nail,

a pen

a brush,

an iron or broom,

we need to work.

we need a plow a field,

to throw a net to catch

things in,

a voice

to sing.

we need the dust on

our shoulders,

the fatigue of the day

when it ends.

we need to make

something

of ourselves,

to be needed and counted

for.

love comes

into play too.

too much information

it's all

politics now.

the weather, fires,

floods,

food,

and science,

genders

and money.

schools

and disease.

it's all a quagmire

of disinformation,

lies and 

erroneous beliefs.

there used

to be two papers

in town to read.

now

there's a thousand

voices screaming

their uneducated opinions

from the tops

of trees.

the senate confirmation hearings

so,

in leading our

nation's military,

do you promise that

you will

stop

beating your wife,

and getting drunk every night

in strip clubs?

and if you don't mind

could you remove

your shirt to show us your tattoos?

the senator

from California asks

breathlessly

while wiping the fog from her

glasses.

but, i've never...

so you refuse to answer

that question.

it's either yes or no.

and you refuse to take your shirt off?

is that right?

but....but...I never...

i'll take that as a refusal

to answer

the simple question

and mark it as a no.

lets move on.

when you were ten,

you once

pulled the pigtails of

the girl who sat in front

of you

in algebra class.

do you regret doing that,

and would you

like to apologize

to her right now?

she's here, in the courtroom.

we flew her in

from New Jersey.

what, who?   i'm sorry but...

sir, i'm asking you a simple

question,

would you like to apologize

to her.

yes or no.

but....i don't....

again.

it's a yes or no answer.

does the cat have your tongue, sir?

but....

fine. i'll mark that down as a no.

if aliens

from Mars landed on

our planet would you want to

put them into

interment camps

because of the color of their

green skin,

and have them

guarded by our military?

yes or no?

you rolling your eyes

at my questions,

and audible scoffs,

will be formally noted into

the Senate Hearing Record.

and i take your answer

to that last

question as a yes,

you would put the Martians

into camps.

and one last question,

if you are confirmed will you ban

all vaccines,

which would in fact

kill millions of people,

and take the fluoride

out of the water

allowing everyone's teeth to fall out

like chiclets from a box?

yes or no.

wait a second, that question is

for the next guy.

never mind.

her girlfriends

it's too late for me to cover

up my ears,

the words

have already entered

and sunk in.

she wants to tell

me the story,

the heartache

of being so endowed

from the top

down.

she tells me how strangers

have been whistling

at her

since she was a child.

she tells me

about her uncle

and his long gazes

as she ran around.

the schoolboys, the grown

men,

even the women

making comments

about her girlfriends.

it hasn't been all fun 

and games,

she tells me.

i gulp and look away

and tell her,

you know, i've never

even noticed them.

let's go for a ride

not unlike

a used car salesman,

sleek

and perfumed,

you

come to me

with the promise

of something shiny,

something

i can

drive long into the night.

a prize

for life.

you offer

me

the keys,

you fill up the tank,

and whisper

sweet nothings into

my ear.

sign here.

you tell me.

sign here.

let's go for a ride.

with the green sea behind you

it's an old

photo.

one where you look happy,

though

i know you weren't.

the green sea

is behind you.

there's a gull in the sky.

you shade

your eyes with your

long arm.

you'd rather be anywhere

else then here.

i sense that 

as i snap the picture,

you're miserable,

but you smile in spite of it,

you don't let on.

stick to your guns

be stubborn,

be hard,

be set in your ways.

be selfish,

but not cruel or mean,

be kind,

but don't let others

make you

sway

from what you believe.

don't waste

your time with dumb.

stick to your guns.

in praise of old windows

i can close

the new windows.

they are made

of vinyl

and metal, plastic.

surgically installed

by trained

technicians.

they are

no longer wood.

no air gets in, no air

gets out.

do i miss the wheezing

of the old

wooden ones,

yes, i do.

the cold breeze,

the broken latches,

the cracks,

the bullet holes from

hunters

in the woods.

i miss how they shook

in storms,

and iced over.

the older i get 

the more i prefer what's

old.

i have no answer to that

i send

him a note, telling him

that his

father has died.

peacefully

in his sleep,

at 95.

he writes

back.

i don't care.

i have no answer for that.

no reply.

chocolate cake and you

i've whittled down

my

vices

to a mere

few.

coffee being one,

sleeping in,

chocolate cake,

and you.

the martini days

i sit

and order a club soda,

with

lime.

it's my seat, my

place

at the bar where i used

to imbibe

on martinis.

clear

hard drinks,

with an olive on

the side.

the lights would

be low,

the music

soft

and sublime.

then a stranger would

appear,

someone searching,

like me,

someone i'd meet

for the first

and last time.

mums the word

mums the word

with politics now,

best not bring up

the cackling

one.

the zombie one,

the slick one

in LA.

why point fingers

anymore

at

any of it, or anyone.

the results are in.

common

sense has at last has won.

time to

get things done.

can we have some?

so how did he die?

disease, accident, foul play?

was he at peace,

was he in pain, what was

the exact cause,

was he alone,

was he in bed, or did

he fall to the floor

and hit

his head?

was he taken to the hospital

before his demise?

will there be a funeral,

a service

of some kind?

what did you do with all

of his belongings?

didn't he have a million

dollar life insurance

policy?

was there money

in the end?

real money?

can we have some?

getting even

i leave

the dog out overnight

and find

him on the front porch

frozen

stiff, with only his eyes

blinking.

he's not happy.

quickly i bring him in

and put

him in a

tub of hot water then

blow dry him,

full blast with the hottest

button.

when he's finally

back to normal,

he looks at

me, then bites my hand

so hard that blood pours

out.

i bandage it up, and nod

to him.

i understand.

i've learned

my lesson. we move on.

towards the waterfall

these stones

will always be here

on this trail.

too heavy to lift

or move.

smoothed by time

and rain,

the whip of cold.

so much

will pass.

even our bones will dry

and turn

to dust.

but not these stones.

they're forever here,

they haven't changed,

nor will they,

since i was born.

see you at 8 for dinner

i give

my lungs a few puffs

of

the inhaler

to catch my breath.

it's the cold

air,

the long hard walk

through

icy woods.

it's the wind,

it's who gave me birth.

it's the food

i ate,

my weight, my age.

but

i'm saved

for another day.

see you at 8 for dinner.

climbing the white tree

tired

of the big chair

in

the corner, i take off

my clothes,

my shoes

and go out into the cold

and climb

a white

leafless tree, heavy

with snow.

i don't know why,

but i feel

it necessary

to get out and do

so.

i need desperately

a different point of view.

i need to shake

things up,

bored

with yesterday

and today.

i need to change my

tomorrows.

layers of dust

as my finger

drags

through the dust on the black

shelf

i think

about

the housekeeper

and wonder

where she's been.

retired

perhaps?

or busy i suppose

with

the cleaning up

of holiday parties.

my mind drifts

as i make

a smiley face in the dust.

i create a whole

new world for her,

a better world

for me.

one that's dust free.

everything must go, come on in

as i clean

out my father's two bedroom

apartment,

by the pool,

with a dirt yard

and concrete

patio

out back

i pull a crowd of curious neighbors

into the darkening

rooms.

take anything you want,

i'd tell them.

everything must go.

cups and saucers,

silverware,

China laced in gold.

who wants a book on fly

fishing,

a book on

diabetes, or cancer.

who here needs a gallon

jug of baby oil,

tubs of hydrogen

peroxide,

or a subscription to Good

Housekeeping.

how about a leather coat

with an alligator

stitched on the back,

three American

flags, with poles.

come on in, don't be shy.

use that box over there, fill

it up.

anyone need a wreathe

for their door

at Christmas time,

how about a glass pumpkin

that lights up?

we've got hoes and shovels.

rakes and brooms.

in the ice box

we have ice cream. four

gallons.

four different kinds.

rocky road, pralines and cream,

strawberry

and mint chip

who wants an Hawaiin shirt,

or a surfboard,

never used?

step right up, step right up.

everything must go.

clipping coupons

i'd see

him at the table

cutting

coupons from the morning

paper.

like a skilled barber,

he'd carefully clip each one out

with his

dull

black scissors from

a sewing kit,

pilfered

from a relationship

gone wrong.

he had money, that

wasn't the point.

he was a child

of the great depression,

a penny

saved

was a penny earned,

or some such nonsense.

i'd drive

him to the commissary

with an envelope 

bulging with

coupons for Ivory soap,

Cheerios and Barbasol

shaving cream.

into the cart went

Oscar Myer's bologna,

and Quaker Oats.

Debbie Cakes,

and Swanson tv dinners.

once home, he'd show

me the receipt

and display his savings

of three dollars

and twenty-seven cents

for six bags

of groceries.

lie down beside me

come lie

down with me in the cold

bed,

the winter

white sheets.

lie down beside me

and do not

speak.

let me hold you

in my arms.

let me listen to you breathe.

in this way.

we'll fall in love

again.

i promise. please,

don't leave.

the endless sending of photographs

i've sent you

so many pictures of me and my

family.

year after year,

holiday

after holiday,

and yet

i don't see one photo

in a frame,

none taped to the refrigerator

door,

not a single photograph

do i see

anywhere

in your home.

are you trying to tell me,

to not to send

anymore?

don't say yes

i don't expect you

to agree

with me.

don't take my side.

take your

own side

and contradict what i say.

please

don't be a yes

person,

i'll lose respect for you,

as you would

for me

if i did the same.

the smelt are thriving

standing on the perch

of a burned out

black hill

with a thousand

homes in ashes

behind them,

beside the Pacific Ocean,

the mayor speaks,

then the governor makes

a speech.

they say together,

that

it's not their fault that

there was no

water in the reservoirs

or in the fire hydrants.

we'll look into this

oversight soon.

and yes, perhaps,

we never should

have cut

funding to the fire department

and have given

billions towards

the homeless,

or made such a drastic

expensive effort 

in saving the smelt,

but thankfully the smelt

are thriving.

a dozen x's and o's

they are handwritten

letters

from my grandmother to my father.

all stuffed inside

a yellow

cigar box.

the ink

from a heavy

cartridge pen

has spilled at certain points,

making black

dried pools

of ink

at the end of each line.

it's hard to read,

cursive and old school,

but it's full of gossip.

who's marrying who,

who drinks too much,

who doesn't have a job,

who's still

in the Navy.

she says she'll be up in 

the fall,

not knowing that she'll have

died before then.

she signs it with

love, your adoring momma,

and with a flourish of 

a dozen x's

and o's

beside it.

why is God punishing me like this?

she was hungover.

too much

white wine

in celebration of the big

game.

she's wasted from

the grape.

the bottles of 

fermented grapes

in fancy

bottles with names

like,

Chuck

or Josh.

she's holding an empty

bottle

as she lies there in

bed.

don't look at me she

says,

and turn the light

off.

what's all that noise?

it's the cat

walking on the carpet.

i tell her.

kill that cat please,

the noise

is killing me.

what day is this?

Monday, i tell her.

are you going to work today?

no,

i quit.

why is God punishing me,

like this?

press one and hold

if this is about your

invoice

press one

and hold, you are

thirty-seven minutes

away from talking

to an agent,

or in receiving further

instructions about 

the next prompt.

if it's about

your past due

account

press two,

if it concerns the renewal

of your

service, press three.

if you'd

like to stand on your

head

and wait for an hour,

press four.

if you're angry and

perturbed about

all of these prompts

and the inability

to talk to a human,

press five.

if you've lost the will

to live,

press six and hang up

and contact

a therapist.

one will be provided if

you press seven.

have a good day.

the almost amended will

she took

care of the elderly men

in her

neighborhood,

and church,

bathing

and feeding each one,

changing

their clothes.

giving them pedicures

and manicures,

haircuts,

massaging their shoulders

and combing their

baby like hair.

and with each visit

she'd bring

them a sweet cake

from the market.

candy or ice-cream,

perhaps

from the bakery, an eclair.

she believed 

that with each old man,

there was a pot

of gold at the end of

the rainbow,

and there might have

been if she

had been smart enough

to move their trembling

hands with a pen

across the freshly

amended will.

but she didn't, so it's back

to church she goes,

back to square one.

in the land of Oz

i bought her a pair

of ruby red slippers,

bright red

shoes,

that glowed

and glimmered

even without a light on them.

they absolutely

sparkled.

but she didn't get it.

she couldn't read

the room.

i kept telling her

to put them on

and click the heels

together.

and repeat after me, 

there's no

place like home,

there's no place like

home.

but she wouldn't do it.

so, sadly,

she's still here,

she's in the other room,

talking on her phone.

three culinary experiences

i married the first

woman

for her

grilled cheese sandwiches

and tomato

soup,

but i forgave

her, she

was only nineteen.

the second one

the longest of all,

made beef

stew

and homemade biscuits,

prime rib

with au jus.

sadly she was sleeping

with my

son's karate

instructor, so

i had to let her go,

but the third one,

could only

open a can of tuna,

Charlie's

from the sea.

that was the shortest

one of all.

a very short 

catch and release.

all these tasty bugs

i don't know

why,

but my arms are flapping

at my side,

i'm eating

bugs

off the ground,

i'm pecking

at the tree,

chirping madly

as i run about with

twigs

and worms

in my mouth.

quickly i google

web md,

they believe that

the bird flu

may have infected me.

there's just ashes

there is no

funeral. no ceremony,

no celebration of life,

no eulogy,

no open

casket, no pictures or

music,

no mourners crying,

no banquet.

no long black

hearse winding its way

to the cemetery

in the cold rain.

no.

he never wanted that.

and he always

got his way. 

so nothing

has changed.

there's just ashes.

all those winter coats

what is there left

after a life well lived?

where's the will?

where's the picture box,

the dusty

albums of children,

before phones took over.

where's

the money jar?

the lock box, the bank

account statement?

what's in it for me?

who was favored, who

wasn't?

there's a lot of digging,

a lot of searching

in places you've never

been before,

there's so many pockets

so many pairs of pants 

and winter coats,

to empty.

the lids are stuck on some

the smell

test is everything when it comes

to cleaning out

the refrigerator.

can pickles go bad?

i see nothing growing on them,

no white

fuzz is apparent.

and what about ketchup.

is that

the forever condiment?

mustard too?

Paul Newman's

oil and vinaigrette?

Marie's blue cheese?

i go through them all,

each jar,

tossing the ones where

the lid refuses

to move.

making the crops come up

she's says

she's spiritual, but not

religious.

it's what most people say

these days,

when asked if they

believe in God,

or Jesus.

the resurrection, or

second coming.

they don't want to align

themselves

with a church or

one of a hundred

different varieties

interpretating

the Bible

to fit their own

personal needs or views.

we do indeed like to cherry

pick our beliefs.

some like to sit

and pray, or to kneel,

or to sing

and socialize, 

or to throw snakes around,

while

others like the mystery

of it all, with candles

and bells, grown

men in gowns, nuns

in black.

perched in the background.

some need a Pope,

some need Billy Graham,

while others,

are writing checks weekly

for Joel and his

prosperity clan,

hypnotized by the bug-eyed

man,

telling you to touch

the tv, and get out your

credit card.

plant your seeds here.

and watch how quickly 

the crops

will grow on your desolate

dry land.

when the world became clear

there is nothing there,

nothing

under the bed

or in the shadows,

no thing

hiding in the closet,

or down

the stairs, creeping

up, presenting fear.

it's just a feeling,

a strange

ominous feeling that

you've had since

birth, when you opened

your eyes and the world

became clear.

the sheet cake

i like the look

of the yard.

the squared

sheet cake

of white icing

with freshly fallen

snow.

not a weed or bush

poking up.

i almost want

to go out and cut

a slice

or two.

bring it in for dessert

for me

and you.

searching for buried treasure

like pirates,

my father's harem,

in mourning, search

high

and low,

in the now

empty house.

digging

for hidden jewels,

the cash

box,

a checkbook,

or something.

into the attic they go

with lanterns,

and torches,

pulling

up the floorboards.

trying every rusted

key

on each heavy box

holding

dust and mold.

they lift

each picture on the wall,

searching

for that elusive

safe 

that held the gold.

but with no luck.

kumbaya

if only

we all had electric cars

with lithium

batteries,

and 

separated

the cans from the plastic

on Thursday.

if only

we had

used paper bags

and boxes

instead

of plastic,

saved

another whale, or smelt,

or didn't

burn an ounce

of fossil fuel

into the air.

if only

we had put

the cows down

in the field

eliminating their

polluting 

exhaust.

maybe then climate

warming

wouldn't have

occurred

causing so much mayhem.

the pink horizon

we sit

with our milkshake mustaches,

and smile.

we say

nothing.

sometimes love

requires that.

just the sweetness

of

the drink,

taken in by long white

straws.

the quiet of the diner,

the sun

settling down,

pink

on the horizon.

you can't stop what's coming

in

wind and fire,

you

do what you can with

a child,

hoping

for the best in his

or her

years to 

come when

a disaster arrives.

will they burn,

or survive,

do they know how

to run

to rebuild,

to

learn.

to find solace

beyond

the orange lit skies.

it's not easy

being child or father.

eating alone on a Saturday night

to eat

alone in a restaurant,

a fine

establishment

along the boulevard,

brings

eyes to your

table.

couples whisper and point,

you can almost

hear them

say,

poor guy.

look at him, all alone

on a Saturday night,

but it isn't true.

there's no heartburn,

or indigestion,

this time.

hanging on for dear life

the hotel

room

faces the winter ocean.

the empty

boardwalk,

the deserted dark beach.

only the strong

white

licks of waves

crashing

are heard

from up hear.

the wind

is punishing the half

mast flags,.

we're hanging on for

dear life,

from this nineteenth

floor

perch.

there's fear.

Oh, those nurses

there's a gun

missing

from the house.

who else has a key

to the front door

of the dearly departed

not yet cold.

some money and a checkbook

are missing,

assorted

jewelry

and credit cards.

a ring or two.

the wallet has never

been so light.

the gun was

a pearl handle

revolver,

from World War two,

once kept in the now

open lock box.

we've searched everywhere

for it,

but no luck,

we did find however,

under the sagging bed,

a box full

of eight track videos

circa nineteen-eighty-eight.

each covering

a variety of desires.

one in particular reads

on the label.

Oh, Those Nurses.

a little mystery

i can't turn

the lock with this rusted

key.

but why bother.

what's in there that hasn't

already

been seen?

let's leave some mystery

to the day.

and walk away.

the old sailor

i understand

the need

that some have to have

the ashes

of the dead on their mantle.

but please,

no thanks.

a picture will do.

cast the old sailor

and his ashes,

into the ocean,

into the deep

and forgiving blue.

i don't expect the phone to ring

the heavy

silence

is creepy, disconcerting

to say

the least.

the quiet mouths

in shallow

grief

are nowhere to be

found.

the stillness

of

them, is strange.

i don't expect

the phone

to ring.

pack light and go

it will be a short

road trip,

just a day or two,

one night

away.

but still i don't know

what to bring.

a toothbrush,

a charger,

a change of clothes?

maybe a book

to read.

whether two days

or a week,

i pack light,

it's all the same.

her muddy crystal ball

the gypsy

down the road, 

the soothsayer,

the fortune teller

is going out

of business soon,

all fortunes

are one half off,

the banner says

across her door.

she's never been right

about a single thing

in my life,

but why not, one

more try.

the price is right.

before the sun rose

when i was

twelve

i'd be up by five in the morning

and out

the door,

bundled up

for the cold.

the newspapers

in bundles were already

waiting for me

on the corner.

it took an hour,

tossing

the batons of news

onto porches,

all through the neighborhood,

and then

i'd be back home.

back in bed.

still in my clothes,

savoring

another half hour of sleep,

before school,

before the sun rose.

one brown mouse

the movers, young

muscled men

with vacant eyes,

who have better

things to do,

arrive with their truck

take everything away.

each piece of furniture

one by one.

the beds,

the couch,

the desk.

the assortment of lamps.

a bookcase

or two.

a dresser.

and now in the empty

rooms

you sweep

and remove the cobwebs

from the corners,

finding

a brown mouse

with a broom,

who looks up to you,

confused.

the rise and fall

the

incline is such

that you

lean on to one another

for support.

arm in arm

you rise.

you may even reach

the top

with help,

but downhill

is different,

it's

easy to slide down

and roll

all by yourself

and hit

the bottom,

when there's no one

to help.

let me die in my bed

let me

die in my bed

surrounded by loved ones,

or at least

the ones

that didn't feign love,

or affection.

a dog

or cat would be nice

too.

curled beside me.

maybe turn the tv off.

enough of that.

cold water,

please,

with ice,

a soft pillow and a warm

blanket

up to my chin.

and if you could be a dear.

read to me.

a poem,

a story.

something to let me

hear

your voice, before

the light

ends.

the lock box under the bed

we all

have secrets. some minor,

some

mild,

some

eyebrow

raising making you

stand back

and say,

oh my.

but definitely

agree that

there's a lock box

or two,

or three

in everyone's

closet,

yet to be found.

Thomas the cat

was he

capable of true love,

unconditional

love?

yes.

and was he able to grieve

when it was time

to grieve?

yes again.

i saw

it all in the cat

he owned,

the cat

that owned him.

the love was there

and when it

died

he grieved terribly

at it's parting,

lost in a tearful

bitter end.

the short and sweet obit

the obit,

sparse and concise

as

the fresh snow

fallen,

now ice,

gives

the birth date,

and death.

the name.

no need to go into detail

here about

the wives

and children,

the relationships,

his work

and play.

how do you sum up

a life

in a few lines?

nothing says it all,

or comes close

defining all that has

occurred between

the start

and finish line.

please go on, i'm just going to nap a bit

when what you're

saying

turns into nonsense,

a babbling brook

of words

and random thoughts,

opinions,

half baked that

i don't agree with,

you'll see me

doze off

as i sit here,

not smiling, not

frowning,

just numb

and half asleep

in my

overstuffed chair.

you can see how busy i am

the to do

calendar is empty.

although i've managed a few

new circles

of brown

from the coffee cup

on its pages.

so it does look like i'm

quite busy

over here,

hurried

and rushed with so

much to do.

image is everything

these days.

the ambivalent mourners

bitter

by the past. 

it's a difficult time

with

funerals.

siblings, and friends.

who comes

to show

respect?

who appears out of

the woodwork

decades

lost in their own lives

having never

reached out.

who

remembers the good,

who's

in tears.

no grief is the same,

but

ambivalence

to death

is.

one less rabbit in the garden

there was a garden

beside

the air conditioner unit,

next to the hose,

and the electric

meter

box.

a small square of soil

where

he planted tomatoes

and peppers,

lettuce.

i'd find him there

in the spring,

knees in the wet

dirt,

deep in thought.

and despite the wire fence

the rabbits

by mid-summer

found a way in.

a fat brown and three

little friends.

we never asked him

where

the meat came from

when he made paella.

we knew.

and just like that

a few

bins and boxes should do it

for the papers

and personal items.

a dozen

large

black trash bags,

some Lysol

and

scrub pads.

some spot carpet

cleaner

and a few

strong men to carry

out the big

furniture

to a dump bound truck.

there's your life for

you.

here and gone.

just

like that.

and the oil painting

of a ship

on the wall, does anyone

want it?

the carrier pigeons

the family grape

vine

is fun

to follow, one whispered

word into

one ear,

travels

fast across the miles,

faster

than any

wire,

or telegraph,

text,

or phone call.

carrier pigeons have

never had

nothing on

this family.

the slight of hand

we are easily

fooled by the slight of the hand,

the card

trick,

by the smile

and sweet words

from

a magician's mouth.

we are careless

with our

love and admiration,

oblivious so often

from the entire

act.

but then what?

i should

run out and buy something.

eat something.

do something

to make me

feel better.

maybe i'll scrub the house

clean

until there's not

a speck

of dirt or guilt

or sorrow to be found.

but then what?

wishful thinking

the ice

will melt, harsh words

will

be forgotten.

new snow

will cover the troubles

that

have come

and gone.

grudges held

onto

will

slip away.

it will be spring again,

won't it?

the uneventful end

not every life

is noble,

crowned or blessed

with

gold

or stature.

for most there is no

plan,

no road

to success. 

no fame is ever reached.

it's just

surviving, taking

and giving

love

when it appears.

trying

your best and often

failing,

until the

uneventful end.

the enormous enchilada

is it guilt

turning my stomach, 

keeping

me awake

into the late

night hours,

or the guacamole

and peppers

i ate

with my 

enormous enchilada?

maybe both.

it usually it is.

flying cold chickens

i stare

at the cold chicken on the shelf

in the harsh

light

of my artic fridge.

last nights meal.

the fat

jelled around

the carcass.

how far could i throw

this bird

into the woods

out the back door

and over

the fence

for the fox

to feast?

thirty yards is my

best guess.

it's hard to leave

it's hard

to quit the job,

or love

gone sour,

even

if you despise the work

you do,

the people you work

with,

the person asleep

beside you.

it's home.

it's where you go

each

day to make your crust

of bed,

to sleep and eat.

it's hard

to let go.

it's better if they do it

to you.

everything beautiful

as i trim

the stem of this long

rose,

and find

the thorn

embedded

in my skin, the blood

trickling

crimson,

i wonder,

can it be true

that with

everything beautiful

comes pain?

what would silence mean?

so much

noise

i make with the twist

of knobs,

the push

of buttons.

i fill the air with sound.

the empty

rooms with noise,

for what would

silence mean?

i'd rather

not think about that

now.

idle hands

what to do

with these idle hands,

these

wandering eyes.

what words

will fall

from my snowy brain.

will i go

dark or light today?

i'll start

with curds and whey,

the sharp knife

i'll save

for later in the day.

your silent joy

your

cat like smirk,

and half

Madonna smile

at my

troubles, tells me all

i need to know

about you.

the silence of your joy

is disturbing,

it delivers the chance

of love

a deadly

blow.

untying her knots

she cursed

like a sailor

and tied knots like a sailor.

so many

nights she left

me,

gnawing

at the ropes

trying to get free

once more.

when you're far or near

i put

my hand in the fire.

that's what

i do

when i call

or visit you.

i haven't learned my

lesson

and probably

never will,

pain or pleasure,

i seem

to want both

when you're

far

or near.

waiting for joy to fall

i see

a red cheeked kid

standing

out on

the sidewalk,

his mouth is open to the sky.

he's waiting,

waiting

for joy

to fall down

in the form

of snow.

what's better than a snowy

Monday

to a child

who hasn't done

his homework.

we're here for you

we've made

too much food, please come

over.

we've built a fire

to keep you warm,

we have the best chair

waiting.

there's plenty to drink.

no need to be of good

cheer, if you're sad

we'll wipe

your tears away,

please,

bring your troubles

with you.

we're here,

no need to knock, or bring

anything,

just you.

just you.

just you. we're here

for you.

come on over, come in.

keeping up with the neighbors

it's strange

to see

chickens in the yard

next

door.

the rooster crowing

at the crack

of dawn.

i see him

collecting eggs

in the morning

from the hen

house.

i can top that.

i get a cow, but

now what?

a stool and a bucket?

gentle squeezing?

i think

not.

scotch on the rocks

it's an old

ice

tray,

circa 1958,

handed down

by my

father.

the one

he used when drinking

to forget

what he couldn't

forget.

it's the metal kind that

you have

to pull the handle back

with all your

strength

and might

before the cubes come

tumbling out.

sometimes you

can't let

go of things, being

the sensitive man

you are.

the cars i left behind

there was the car

that i left on the side of the road,

out of gas.

the car

that when it rained

the trunk

would fill with water.

the car

that wouldn't start,

the one

that the wheels shook

when

i drove it on the highway,

the car

that leaked gas,

the one i couldn't get the smell

out of.

there was the car

that was stolen,

the one that had the window

cracked.

the car with torn seats,

a broken mirror,

the one with the headlights

pointing left.

the car i drove

to the drive-in theater.

the car i lost my virginity in.

the car i dragged empty beer cans

behind

after the first wedding.

the cars with flat tires.

the car i washed and waxed

every Saturday.

the car i fixed.

the car i couldn't fix.

the car i have now 

that i can't figure out

what all the buttons

are for.

who wants that?

who wants

the old

girlfriend to still be pretty?

no one

that i know.

we want

to see them limping

down

the street, bedraggled

and poor,

blemished

and weak.

we don't want them

more blonde

than before,

healthy as a horse,

we prefer 

not to witness them

riding

in a Lamborghini,

waving

and laughing,

from the passenger seat.

all of your Joe's and Mary's

of course

the world

will end.

and all that we hold dear

and true

to our

hearts will disappear

with it,

but why worry.

that's a long way off?

right?

so eat

drink and kiss

with gratitude all

of your

Joe's and

Mary's.

just one night

as i sink

into the east river

with a

cement block tied to my

ankle.

i think back

on my life,

especially the last

twenty-four hours

with a girl

named Lucinda.

she wasn't lying

about her

mob connections,

or her brother

Joey.

and as i slip down

into the cold murky

water,

i see the city waking

up

to a pink sunset.

i wave goodbye

to Lucinda

while she waves back 

from the pier.

the white field

the field

is white with last nights snow.

there are white

mountains

beyond it.

i start.

one foot before

the next.

i sink to my knees.

will there be an end to it?

will

i know it when i

get there?

it doesn't matter.

nothing matters.

it's the walk

that counts.

but less so than yesterday.

you look familiar, do i know you?

i bumped

into her coming out of the shower,

soaking wet,

her hair

matted

on her head,

her make up washed

away,

her glasses on,

and a towel

wrapped around her

bones

and flesh

where a shiny black

dress

once hung.

oh, excuse me, i said.

do i know you?

not yet,

she said.

almost, but not yet.

one more for the road

being inebriated,

was sort of cool, being tipsy,

and wobbly

in the late

night

hours with

happy hour turning into

one a.m.

at the blink

of an eye.

one more for the road?

one last

dance or kiss,

or song to sing

before the lights go

up

and the place closes.

how we survived those

years,

i'll never know.

the word on the street

we'll survive.

we always do, right?

we'll

get past this.

whether cold or heat.

flood

or drought.

we'll find

a way to keep going,

but take my

hand,

the word on the street

is that it's

easier with two.

when meeting out of context

i see my

dentist coming out of the coffee shop.

she's dressed to nines,

all decked out

on my

last dime.

i wave

and say hello, but she

doesn't recognize me, so i open

my mouth

as wide as i can

and mumble,

letting drool

roll down my chin,

and then she says, oh, yes,

hello there,

three crowns,

a bridge and four fillings.

how are you?

the new car salesman

i think back

to every car or truck

i've ever

purchased

and think if there

was one,

just one,

a single transaction where

it all went

as planned,

with no underhanded

shenanigans.

no lying, no cheating,

no extra charges.

i count zero.

when i've driven away

in the new

vehicle,

i've always felt

that i've been taken,

but vowing to myself,

never again.

our original weight

we grow

into our clothes.

we need room in our

shoes,

our shirts

and pants.

we're growing up and out,

in all directions.

and then

that stops

at some point,

and we go the other way,

heading back towards

our original

weight.

the early morning stretch

as i lie

on the kitchen floor, doing

my early

morning stretching,

while waiting

for the coffee to boil,

i hear a series

of serious cracks in my

back

and shoulder.

breathe, i tell myself.

just breathe. but

my knees sound like crickets

and my

neck

refuses to turn from side

to side like

it used to.

it doesn't help when the cat

and dog

come by,

one on my spine and the other

licking my

face

growling for a snack.

lost in the funhouse

of course

drama

is more fun, it's more exciting,

to have

a crazy person

in your life.

crazy in the head,

crazy in bed,

as they say.

why not have

the ups and downs,

the walking on eggshells,

the rollercoaster

ride

of instability,

the fun house of

a mental disorder.

you never

know who they'll be today,

and neither do

they.

the old key in the shed

i hear you

in the kitchen, cracking eggs

into a skillet.

i smell

the bacon

and coffee.

there's music too.

the window is open,

birds

are chirping,

and the blender

is making

juice.

who are you?

do i know you?

did i leave the door unlocked

again,

or did you find

the old key

i left hanging in the shed?

a short visit maybe

in which

age, which era of time

would

you be happier in.

the dark

ages,

the renaissance,

the fifties,

when the world was black

and white,

the roaring

twenties perhaps,

or maybe when

dinosaurs roamed

the earth

biting legs.

would you look good

in a white

wig like GW,

or in a top hat,

like Abe.

could you be a minstrel

or a court

jester

in ole England

with the guillotine

and saucy maids, or

maybe an Egyptian

with a Siamese cat

back

in the Cleopatra days.

this pill will solve everything

if you can't sleep,

they have a pill,

just swipe your card.

fat,

no problem, here's

a needle

stick it in,

stick it anywhere.

unwell,

step right up,

sign

here and there,

take two in the morning

two at night.

nervous

and anxious,

come over here and stare

up into the light.

bend over

and say ahhh.

going bald,

unsightly skin,

the jimmy leg,

drink this, rub it on,

we can help you,

we can fix anything.

we are your friend.

the mid-life crisis

i keep

thinking that this must be

what

a middle age

crisis feels like.

the angst

and uncertainty,

the feeling

that it's all slipping

away too fast,

but if i do the math,

that would mean

i would have to live

to be a hundred and forty,

which would

put me into

a biblical category.

although

Moses did sit behind me

in Geometry.

suspicion

when

she used to search

my pockets,

my coats,

my desk drawers for

clues,

for money?

for what i was never

quite

sure of,

i'd leave her notes

to find.

not here,

i'd say,

or here either,

keep looking, then

i'd draw

a smiley face and tell

her, keep

searching, sweetheart,

maybe next

time.

check this off my list

i make

my bed a few minutes 

before

going to bed.

i put on

clean sheets

and fluff

the pillows

just so,

and then

the careful final

fold.

i feel

good about this.

it was on my

long list of things

to do.

and now at last

one of them has

been accomplished.

a religious quest

i see a woman

standing

outside in the cold grass.

she's been

there all day,

and now the sun has set.

she's alone

and facing my window.

she glows like the statue

of Mary,

my mother

had on her dresser.

i raise my hand to her,

but there

is no response,

no wave

in return.

she's motionless

in the wind.

only her red hair

moves side to side

she reminds me of no

one,

she reminds me

of everyone.

she removes her dress

so that i can

see her pale

body.

the curve of her breasts,

the length

of her legs.

it's what all women do

when they want

love, i suppose,

when they want forever

to occur,

but this is just a guess.

it's easier now

it's easier now

to let go of slights from

long

ago,

to forget

the injuries acquired

in love

and game.

it's easier now to be

wise,

to be kind,

to accept the now,

to welcome

each tomorrow

without

blame.

if only that flight of stairs,

i'm about to

climb,

were the same.

a night at the Bijou

we settle

into our seats at the movie

theater.

it's forty dollars

later, but we're

excited to be out

and about

to the big screen show.

we have

pop corn

and soda

in hand as we awkwardly

remove

our coats and hats,

our scarves

and get settled in.

we're on the aisle seats,

the number nine

seat and

number ten. row G.

the place goes dim

as the previews

begin

and then more people arrive.

excuse me,

excuse me they say, pardon

us,

as they squeeze by.

we have to stand up,

and do it

all over again

then again.

someone begins to cough

and talk on

their phone.

a woman in the middle has

to suddenly go to

the bathroom.

a pregnant

woman

is having bigger issues

as she holds her belly

and climbs

over the rows,

the man behind me has

enormous boots

that keep kicking my chair.

i notice

that it smell like ammonia

and cabbage

in here. then

someone from the balcony

screams fire.

next time i think we'll wait

for Netflix.

is there a note explaining why?

we go in

with boxes, enormous

plastic

bins.

the end has arrived.

what books

do we take?

what clothes, what rings

or watches.

those pictures

on the wall?

who wants them?

there's milk in the ice

box.

do we pour it out?

there's a sandwich

on the counter.

stiffened 

with time.

someone turn the oven

off

and open a window.

see if you can find

a note

explaining why.

don't make me beg for it

it's cold very cold.

the engine

won't turn over.

the car won't start,

i keep cranking it,

pumping the pedal,

talking sweetly

to it, whispering into

her ear.

come on baby, come on,

turn over.

here we go, Betty.

don't make me beg

for it.

but there's no juice

in the battery.

yes, i call her Betty.

i've named the car after

my ex-wife,

because they are so

much alike

on a cold frosty day.

the soft warm summer land

i believed

that if i ran across that yellow

field

that i

would be somewhere else,

hidden

from the world.

i just needed to let

go of

my mother's hand,

and run.

run through

the high grass,

the oats, the rye,

the soft

warm bed

of summer land.

not done with them yet

we often

raise

the dead with words.

praising them

beyond

measure,

remembering

those good times,

or we

bury

them even deeper

with a dark

shoveled memory

here

or there.

we're not quite done

with them

yet.

we remember strangely

what they

said,

what they did,

for better or worse.

i can't escape you

i go

into the empty room,

and you

are there.

i climb

the stairs,

i pull the ladder down

from that attic,

i go

into poorly lit

room

below the roof,

and you are there too.

i try

the cellar,

but i see you in the

damp

corner

beside the stacks,

the boxes

of old news.

i have to leave the house

to escape you,

but then, 

there in the sunlight,

beside me,

i see your shadow.

we've hardly swept the confetti

another

day,

another bomb,

another

bullet

another news cycle

of tragedy.

a new

year,

a new fear.

we've hardly swept

up

the confetti

and away we go again.

business as

usual.

there's no

stopping

evil,

no stopping

the demons.

boys class math while the girls played volleyball

what was

the value of x,

this y, this z,

this

ab squared.

what were these

numbers

and letters

between the equal

sign, for what purpose

did we divide

and then multiply.

and dear lord

what about Pi?

what was

the square

roots of our young

and 

questioning

lives?

poor Mr. Reber at

the chalkboard,

trying so

hard to teach our

girl distracted

minds,

while they lunged

at the volleyball

outside.

an early morning portrait of you

i can't help but think of Picasso

or Matisse

when i see

the curve of you

in the morning,

your long leg hanging out

from the pink

sheets.

the twist of you,

one arm

unseen, your pale body

in slumber,

the morning light and

bright

clock with

red

blinking numbers.

and when the cat appears

to curl

beside you, it's face

becoming yours.

it's finished.

here's a shovel, start digging

i can be

kind,

or cruel, impatient,

loving

and rude.

i've got it all in me.

name

a sin,

name a trouble.

you won't have to dig

far

to find the worst

of me,

the dirt floor,

the rubble.

but i think

there's a diamond

in there too.

and if you stick around

long enough,

and dig hard, 

maybe you'll see

a little of that shine

coming through.

before i lie down

before i lie down,

i need to tell you

something,

i need to tell you

that i won't

sleep well tonight.

i can feel

the ocean in me,

a quiet storm.

it's not one thing

or another.

there's nothing i can

pin it on.

i just know, that sleep

will be hard

to come by,

that's all you need to know,

now kiss me

goodnight

and close your eyes.

no matter where you've been

no

matter where you go,

or where

you've been,

the wonder of the trip,

and all you've

seen,

you can't wait

to get home.

it's not a castle, or

a penthouse suite,

a mansion

on the hill.

it's not the taj mahal,

it's just

your humble abode,

a place

where your love and you

can sleep

in peace.

safe and warm.

i'm not angry anymore

i take it back,

all of

those things i said about you,

and more.

i take them

back.

i'm not

angry with you

anymore,

but

don't get the wrong idea.

this isn't

an invitation

to return,

it's not forgiveness

either,

i'm just tired of hating

you,

i can't carry

that toxic weight anymore.

leave those boots alone

i don't want to talk about

my boots,

the old muddy

pair

in the closet.

the brown ones

that i can't seem

to throw away.

i don't want to remember

those times.

just leave them

in there

with the dirt all dried,

who needs

to go there?

i'm way past them now.

i'm in a different

life.

write me something

write me

something. go on.

put into

words

how you feel, write

me a song,

a poem.

something i can hold

on to

when it's cold

and raining,

when there's no

fire

to feel.

tell me, go on,

be the poet you claim to be.

write me something.

here's a pen.

be kind and

write something for me.

she never said it with words

this ain't love,

she told me, it's convenience.

i'll be moving

along

in no time.

just as soon as the next

train

arrives.

but she never said this

with words,

no, that would

be unkind,

instead,

she said it with her kisses,

or lack thereof,

so far from spring

i could see

that he was wearing his

January

face.

the long frown,

the whitened

brow,

the ice

and frost of winter

upon him.

so far spring from we are,

he whispered.

i don't believe that i shall

ever see it

again.

the early morning triage

i take my early

morning

triage

of pains

as i slide out of bed.

which knee hurts worse.

the back,

the neck,

the arm, the stiffness

of feet

and fingers.

which one shall i treat

first

with a wrap,

or pill,

an ointment for

my chest.

or shall i just turn

the shower

on cold, full blast?

and be

done with them all

in thirty minutes

or less?

a taste for the new

i no

longer have a favorite color.

it used

to be blue or some

shade of blue,

indigo

would often do

when asked,

my closet is full

of blue,

but now

i'm friends with green

and red,

even yellow

or brown will strike

my fancy.

each day is different now,

my tastes

in many things have changed,

i guess

i know that you know

i know you know

that i know

that you

know that i'm on to you.

but let's

not talk about that,

okay?

let's move on,

and pretend that all

is well.

let's march through

the darkness of

another day.

there are ghosts

there are ghosts.

i have

put

my arm into the sleeve

of cold air

and pulled it out,

as the dog

stood barking madly,

with upraised

hair.

i have felt the presence

of the other

side.

and sometimes i see

it in your

shadow,

following me,

but wordless,

stride for stride.

which wink is that?

is there

something in your eye,

smoke,

or the sting of

an onion,

or medicine?

or are you winking

at me,

at last

in the mood

for fun?

but the year is young

i go back

on three of my five

new years resolutions

by nine am

on January first.

i eat

a donut,

i text Betty,

and i drink three cups

of coffee

spiked

with Kalua.

two more resolutions

to go,

but the year is young.

orange chicken and rice

i stare

into the abyss of the ice

box.

frozen pea

and eggs,

ketchup

and mustard.

an onion on its last

legs.

i think

it's Chinese tonight

dear,

shall we get dressed

and go out?

no? too cold?

okay,

let me call ahead

for delivery.

orange chicken and rice?

yes?

and two egg rolls?

let's pretend it never happened

by the way,

what happened last night,

didn't happen,

or at least let's pretend

that it didn't.

let's call

it not a mistake, but an 

unfortunate

turn of events.

let's blame it on new

years eve,

on champagne and

celebration.

let's blame it on loneliness

and the mistletoe

hanging over

the door frame,

or us being the last

two standing,

as the crowd drifted

away.

and by the way what should

i do with the things

you left behind.

your purse, your shoes,

your handbag,

your negligee.

i can fix this, trust me

perhaps

i can glue this broken thing

back

together.

i can fit the pieces

like

a puzzle

into what it was before,

minus

the cracks

and shards

that are lying on

the floor.

i can repair the damage

of us.

truly i can.

trust me.

no need for you to walk

out the door.

why go anywhere else?

the pigeons

are

fat in this city, and so

are we

wobbling from

store to store,

swiping cards,

buying things

we don't need.

the pigeons never

fly south

or north, like we do,

they're

here for good,

centuries of them

in their

grey jackets,

hobbling on yellow claws.

they're everywhere

you look.

they live

where the rich

live,

the poor, every

neighborhood has pigeons,

on every statue,

on every ledge of every

building,

they adorn.

they know

they have it good here.

they hardly flinch

a feather

when you walk by them,

their beaks

gnawing on a bagel

just thrown.

baked beans over an open fire

when you

start out with nothing,

it's hard to let go

of that

state of mind.

for the rest of your life

you are stuck

on zero

no matter how much wealth

you've accumulated

over time.

a million,

two million, a billion,

it doesn't matter.

you always feel like you're

one day away

from living in a tent

behind the liquor

store and cooking beans

over an open fire

with some dude named

Jake the snake.

there's one born every minute

before we were

married

she studied my tax statements

and 401 k

and

my blue chip

stock investments,

she took note of

my real estate possessions,

cars, etc.

she couldn't

keep her

hands off of me

while she strode around

in her sheer

negligee.

she wore me out.

but the day

after the wedding,

with the ink

barely dry on the decree,

i tried to hold

her close

and nibble at her neck,

to which she said,

we just did it yesterday,

we're kind of clingy

now,

aren't we?

the party next door

i see the beer

truck

and the deli delivery van

arrive

out front.

deliveries are being made

to the house

next door.

a DJ

appears with his

sound equipment.

i suspect

a new years eve party

going on tonight.

i check my

mailbox, my phone,

but nothing,

no invite.

i never should have reported

them

for their barking

dog.

it's okay, though.

i have a hat,

and a cowbell

and Betty coming over

with some

eggnog.

could you close that door, i can hear her screaming

of course it's a miracle,

a wonderous

thing to behold, but

i never wanted to film

the birth of my child,

or be in the room,

like so many do

when the biscuit come

out of the oven.

i got out of there

while they held my

wife down,

screaming bloody murder,

cursing the day

i was born.

i put my phone away.

i found the waiting

room, with the other

exhausted and nervous

husbands to be my

place to wait it out.

i tapped my foot incessantly

and bit my nails

while reading

the sports page

and sipping a cup of coffee

from the hall

machine.

home for the night

i remember

my father smoking in his

big chair.

filling the room with

blue smoke.

a cigarette,

a cigar, or perhaps his pipe.

i can hear

him tap tap tapping

it against

the ashtray,

filling it with a strange

wood cherry

tobacco.

pressing it tight.

holding the flame

above

the cup

as he lit it.

we didn't seem to mind.

at least he was

home

for the night.

before the year ends

so much

to do

before the year ends.

so

much

mending of fences,

of

distant friends.

i strap

on my tool bag

of empathy

and 

regret and get to it,

the clock

is ticking,

yet again.

chasing the last leaf fallen

for an hour,

i hear

the roar, the thunderous

continual

roar

and think that maybe

a jumbo

jet

or helicopter

is hovering over the cul de sac.

so i look

out the window

and there i see a man

with a leaf

blower

on his back,

chasing the last leaf

fallen

towards his burlap

bag.

no secret ingredients here

how can

you not like someone that

has a secret

recipe,

a secret sauce,

or set of seasonings

that they can't

reveal.

it's the twinkle in the eye

that

makes you

smile.

them ribbing you,

you being

just a salt and pepper

guy.

the cold cup

distracted,

i let the cup of coffee go cold.

i've

been too busy

with

this machine,

this book

that never ends,

these words as they unfold.

but there's

more to pour,

always more.

the carrot stick girl

she was

a carrot stick kind of girl.

a rabbit

of sorts

with her lettuce

and kale,

her

probiotic juice,

her barely

getting by in her

sugarless

world.

sometimes i'd hold

her up

when the wind

blew,

tie her

to my belt,

as i ate my double

burger

from Five Guys.

no trumpets will fill the air

for many,

for most, there is no grand

announcement

of passing.

no church bell rings,

no trumpets

fill the air,

no banners are unfurled.

for most,

it's the cleaning

lady

that finds us

at the table,

next to a cold bowl

of cereal.

maybe a despondent dog

curled

by the window

in our empty chair.

let's drink, let's eat

show

no frugal hand

in this

feast.

bring to the table

more

than you can afford,

the finest wines,

the fruits

and vegetables

that are hard to find

with winter

on us,

bring me

the largest

beast.

let's show

them

how much we care

and love them.

come

the new year

will start all over

again.

but for now let's drink,

let's eat.

please, tell me more

when i hear 

your countless troubles,

as we walk,

i forget about my own,

so please

go on,

the sun has yet to set

and we have miles

to go

before we're home.

more happy faces arrive

i could paper my walls 

with the pictures you send

of your family.

the mawkish

scrawl

of hallmark cards.

with each

holiday more arrive.

faces i don't know,

from

old to small.

from birth till death,

i have them

all, even pets.

i have no guess

what to do

with the boxes

that holds them.