the enormous iron skillet

the cast

iron

skillet is beyond heavy.

it bends

my wrist

without

anything in it.

it's impossible to clean,

to scour

the rust out of it,

to store

in the cupboard,

but it was

passed

down

by my grandmother

on my mother's

side

of her family.

the Orsinis, so it's

an heirloom of sorts,

i guess.

i remember her

scrambling

eggs in it,

frying bacon and scrapple,

making a red sauce

for linguini,

with mushrooms

and sausage.

i'll find a place

for it

somewhere

eventually. i'll

hammer

a large nail into

the basement

cinder block walls,

and let it hang there,

finally

free of tallow

and grease.

the political coffee clutch

it's a political

discussion at the coffee shop.

it started off

with the weather

and sports,

what sale was on at

the local

stores.

children and grandchildren.

vacations.

and then it turned

to Trump

and all hell broke loose.

so you want

criminals not to be deported,

but put into nice hotels

in New York.

you want the wars to go on.

you want to rewrite the English

language

with a new

set of pronouns.

you want boys

in girls' sports,

children to have

their body parts cut off.

you support terrorists

still holding

hostages?

you want an open border

and red dye number

four in all your food?

you don't mind all the waste,

abuse and fraud?

you don't want workers to

go back to work?

and now you hate electric

cars?

what about the climate change

and the melting

icebergs?

punches where thrown,

wigs fell off,

dentures

were loosened and

wheelchairs tipped

over

until a barista from Mozambique

came out

with a hose

to break it all up.

no place like home

when he got out

of prison,

he was a new man.

he found God,

he got his law degree.

he was tanned

and in shape.

his skin had cleared up.

he was polite

and well mannered.

strong.

he was wearing glasses

and carrying books

when he left

the prison yard,

released early

on good behavior.

so it surprised me when

i saw him on the news

handcuffed after

robbing a liquor store.

but he looked happy

to be heading back home.

i'm afraid to ask, but what surgery are you having?

she tells me

she'll be out of commission

for a while.

she's going

in for surgery.

she doesn't tell me what

kind of surgery it is,

but she wants

me to know

that it's surgery.

my mind runs through

the possibilities.

another face

lift, a tummy tuck.

enlargements perhaps,

or a bone in her foot.

so many possibilities,

skin, cataracts,

implants, some sort of

female issue,

perhaps a complete

transition,

taking thing off,

putting things on, as

she joins the other side.

it's normal now

cursing

is normal now.

presidents do it,

politicians,

actors of course,

cab

drivers and clerks,

children

well versed

by parents.

waitresses

and cooks.

just yesterday i

heard the priest

drop

the f bomb when

his Easter gown

got caught

on a hook.

the glass paperweight

i bought

a glass paper weight

in Italy.

a white clear

stone

of some

sort, carved into

the shape of a

pyramid.

across an ocean,

stuffed into

a suitcase

it traveled

with me.

it holds memories

of love

at a different

age.

someday someone

will take it

off my desk,

and ask, what is this?

a rainy day with Judge Judy

i binge

on Judge Judy episodes

for a few

hours.

it's raining out

and i have nowhere to go.

pizza has

been delivered.

i'm cozy on the couch

with the big

dog.

she listens to me

as i go on and on

about the cases

Judy has to reign over.

mostly small

potato stuff,

dog fights, cat fights.

scratches

on cars.

spills on rug by renters.

food poisoning

at weddings,

a hairdresser drunk

and run

amok

with her clippers.

the dog waits for me

to fall

asleep

then finishes off the pizza.

fitting into the senior home

after moving into

the senior home,

it's a ten to one ratio

of women

to men,

i look

at pillows online.

decorative pillows.

a set

of three or four to give

the couch

and house

a look of

happy domestication.

round

pillows, square,

large

and small.

of all colors.

some have cats embroidered

on them,

dogs

stitched into

the fabric.

birds with wings

spread

wide.

they arrive a few days

later,

just on time

for my tea

party

on Sunday, after

church,

at five.

i show the girls around

and then

we have some tea,

and pie.

the cold room sleep

the room

is cold, awful cold.

the window

left open

overnight.

i shiver in my bare

feet

and lack

of clothes.

my teeth chatter

as i go

to pull it shut.

but i slept well.

so there's that.

spring breakers

it's an annual

thing,

spring break,

drinking is

involved,

maybe drugs

and sex.

but someone is missing.

a girl,

a boy.

lost on some far

away

island.

washed away at sea.

unfound and

forever far away

from Iowa, or

Wisconsin.

the low white sun

i see him sitting

in his driveway

next to his twenty-year-old

car.

his phone in hand,

a mixed

drink.

he's nursing his thoughts.

taking in

the low sun,

wondering

how he got here.

so far away from home,

nearly

alone,

except for a wife 

who doesn't love him

anymore,

and a dog

who rarely barks.

rearranging still life

i move

one picture into the hall.

the other

i take

down

to the basement.

i hammer

in more nails. i spend

hours

rearranging

the art,

both new and old,

then take a seat to see

if everything

feels right

in their new place.

it doesn't.

i get the paint out

and the spackling

from a jar.

Moe's Diner

it's human

nature to want to get out.

to get

out of the house,

get away

from the job,

go somewhere else,

anywhere.

just point at a map

and go.

at a planet, a star.

sometimes

i'm so desperate to get

out of the house

i'll walk

three miles in the snow

to go

get a grilled cheese

sandwich

and a bowl of soup

at Moe's.

find yourself a pie maker

you need

to find a good woman,

my neighbor

from Appalachia

tells me

as she hangs her clothes

on the back line.

a woman who bakes pies.

you can't go

wrong with

a woman like that.

cherry, apple,

peach.

pumpkin, or mincemeat.

a woman who bakes pies

is down

to earth,

someone in touch

with her

feminine side.

she has a good heart

and isn't afraid to get

her hands

dirty

with flour, or get next

to a hot stove.

she'll stand by your side

and never leave.

find a woman

like that dear boy

and you'll never be alone.

i'll let you know when i heal

she tells me

that she can't text anymore,

at least not

for a while,

she's had surgery on

her hand,

her right hand, her

texting hand.

i'll be in contact when

it heals,

she says.

forgetting that we could

just talk,

like in the old days,

on the phone.

everything will be alright

if i told

my mother that i'd broken

an arm

or leg,

or lost my job,

or was

getting a divorce,

explaining sadly

what had

occurred, she'd begin

to cry

and turn it all around

to be about her,

before long

i was there, having lunch

with her

trying to calm

her down.

telling her that everything

was going to

be alright, not to worry.

maybe you were wrong about them

once you

make your declaration

of hatred

or strong dislike 

towards

a friend or sibling,

husband or wife,

a politician, it's hard

to reverse course

and be caught seen with

them, raising

the eyebrows

of those who know your

position.

they are chagrin

at seeing you peacefully

having tea

in the morning sun

as if friends,

as if everything is alright.

admitting that

maybe you

were wrong from the jump

about them.

finding the right moment to read

rare

to dive into a book these days.

it's more

of a dipping

of toes.

finding just the right

moment

to sit

in just the right amount

of natural

or unnatural light

to read.

it's an effort of sorts

to close off the outer

world

to go under

the spell of a good

story,

well told.

what we must do for love to continue on

some men

like to dance, others don't,

but are forced

onto the dance

floor

by wives

and girlfriends,

at weddings,

and parties,

darkened night clubs.

they are

forced to move about

in embarrassing

ways, 

stirring up gyrations,

almost forgotten,

unused for decades.

they slide their shoes

across

the floor

tossing arms about,

twisting

their bodies this way

and that,

counting the seconds

when the song

will end,

when the band will stop.

what we do for love,

or lust

is immeasurable at times.

hanging clothes in March

i stretch

a taut line from fence to fence

in the back yard

and go

out with a cold wet

basket

of washed clothes

to hang them.

i have clothes pins

in my mouth,

a few in my pockets.

the wind blows

hard.

it's March.

the neighbors don't know

what to make

of me

and neither do i.

i tried hard to fit in

i wanted

to be a good worker,

but i hated

the work.

the coat and tie,

the cubicle,

the windows that

never opened,

the nine

to five.

i wanted to fit in.

i tried.

but only lunch

interested

me,

happy hour

and the coffee brewed

in the galley

kitchen or

the new secretary

at her

desk, in her

pencil dress,

with blue eyes.

if you love him, you'll buy him whatever he wants, she said

what

became of all those toys

the boy

gained

on Christmas,

for birthdays,

or for no other reason

than to please

him, and to stave

off his tears

and screams.

what attic are they in,

what box,

or bag

do they lie in?

have they traveled

with him

across the country?

small plastic reminders

of love

without boundaries,

regardless

of cost,

bought for wrong

reasons.

one that gets away

a line

is with me all day.

i repeat it to myself, over

and over.

i have no pen

or paper to jot it down.

but it's

a good line, a clever

string of

words

that will lead down

some poetic road

when i get home,

but of

course it slips out

of my mind,

falls back into

the sea

like a beautiful fish

too strong

to hold for very long,

snapping

the slender line.

do you want to hold my baby?

on the corner were

a gaggle

of women,

fussing over a baby,

a pink

bald

thing wrapped

in what i guess one

would call

swaddling.

i approached cautiously

to look into

the enormous

stroller.

do you want to hold

her?

the owner asked.

why, i said,

which made them all look

at me

as if i'd lost my mind.

raking acorns in her snake boots

they were

rubberized boots, high

laced

and white,

with cows on them,

she called

them her snake boots

when she went

out into the yard,

to rake

acorns.

copperheads

and black

snakes

were everywhere.

she was afraid

and unafraid at the same

time.

i watched her from

the window,

and wondered how long

this relationship

would last.

shadow and light undone

a stone

thrown into the placid

pond

sets

a series of ripples outward.

part sun, part clouds,

a swell of shadow

and light

undone.

it keeps

you busy

with thought for 

a short while,

until you walk on.

the unemployment line

in the dead of winter,

we went

down

to the red brick building

in Bladensburg

to sign

up for unemployment

benefits.

seventy-nine

dollars

a week.

we stood in line,

John and I,

hands in our pockets,

stamping our

feet.

we never talked about

what's next.

there was

always another job

in the paper

that we circled

after a weeks rest.

somehow

we managed to land

on our feet.

find something to pay

the bills.

we'd go our separate ways,

get married, have kids.

make the most of it.

he's buried not far

from the old building

where we used

to stand in line.

i can hear him laughing,

as we moved

along, the snow falling down,

flakes of white

in his beard,

still carefree

and young.

when they built Landover mall

there

was always someone

stepping

on a nail,

or falling through a ceiling,

or off

a ladder

on the construction site.

it was nothing

to slam a hammer

into your hand,

or cut

yourself on a power saw.

there were

men with bandages

on them,

missing eyes,

and fingers,

limping.

their whiskey breath

making you

wince

when they told you to

carry a load

of bricks to the other side

of the house.

the smell of diesel filled

the air.

it was a summer job,

good pay

for hard labor.

but you retired from it

after only three days

in the boiling sun,

and dried mud.

turn around and go back

i stop

for the directions on the back

country road.

there's an

old man

and woman selling

produce

in a shack, sitting

in folding chairs

and using

cardboard

to cool themselves

and to keep the flies away.

they're in the shade

and don't move

a lick when we pull

up.

do you know where

the water tower

is? the woman says.

no, i say.

i don't.

what about the Jones Farm,

where all the cows

are?

nope.

i'm lost.

yes you are mister, my

advice is to turn

around,

or use your phone.

the grumpy astronaut

the astronauts

are smart,

and clever, educated to the nth

degree

in engineering

and science.

brainiacs

of the highest order.

but do they

get along in their little

tin home,

cramped in the tight berth,

floating high above

the earth.

is there a grumpy one

in the mix,

a sour puss

gumming

up the comradery

and work?

whining about the food.

will someone at some

point pinch the hose

that provides

him air?

one every year

was it

because she was Catholic,

was that the reason

to have nine

children,

was it a sin to stop,

to block,

to take a pill or resist?

would

the Bishop be mad,

passing word

along to the Cardinal

and Pope.

would there be a conclave

of men

gathered to decide her fate?

we were poor, becoming

poorer,

but as we gathered

around the dinner

table, she believed that

none of us

were a mistake, and then 

she said grace.

brotherly love

my brother

calls me, he want to make peace.

to be

friends again,

to be close

and brotherly.

it's been ten years

of silence but

he's tired of the anger

and 

misunderstandings,

the grudges

held.

he wants to smoke the peace

pipe,

bury the hatchet.

let bye gones be bye gones

but it's a one way

call collect

from the county

jail,

and he needs

thirty-five hundred

dollars

to make bail.

dear brother, can you help?

he is the child now

as he lies

in bed,

i read to him as he once

read to me.

Mark Twain

and Poe,

David Copperfield.

Jules Verne's

Twenty Thousand Leagues

under the Sea.

there's a pillow

behind his

head

as he sits up and listens,

drinking

his Earl Grey tea.

the window is open,

blowing

ghost like the sheers.

his good

ear

leans towards me.

he is the child now.

not me.

the eight o'clock date

you are conscious

of the warm

water in the bucket, the suds,

the sponge

and rag

floating.

slowly, as if in a trance

you work your

way around the car,

wet with the hose,

scrubbing off the winter

dirt,

the salt, the mud.

tire to tire,

around

you go.

and then the arc of

water,

spraying with thumb

pressed against the copper

hole.

it's May at last and

you're sixteen again

in the sun with your shirt

off,

drying off the fender

with your mother's best

towels,

the hood,

the trunk and roof.

the windows,

thinking about the girl

you're going to

pick up at eight o'clock

for the Saturday

show.

i need you again

i have

no one to blame things on.

that pad

of butter

on the floor, the unlocked

door,

the window open

letting flies

in.

i have no one to yell at,

to give

them a piece of my

mind,

about the money spent,

the unmade

bed,

the weeds in the yard,

come over,

i think i need you again.

the fourth trip down the hall

at night,

when heading to the bathroom

for the fourth

visit,

to eek out

what i can, drip drip, drip,

i stub

my toe on the nightstand,

the one you

bought

with wide metal

claws

for feet.

i mutter out

a curse,

and think of you.

what if i ate all of this

what if i stopped

shopping,

stopped going to the grocery

to fill up

the cart and take

it all home.

to fill the shelves

and racks,

the refrigerator

once more.

what if i ate what i already

have.

the last inch of peanut

butter

in a jar.

the three slices of bread

at the end of a bag,

a can of olives.

those grapes

going soft,

that box of pasta,

with ten strands left,

the butt of a ham covered

in foil,

pushed behind

a box of Chinese food

from Hunan West.

our short comings

there's a

hole in the sleeve of my sweater,

but maybe

no one will notice.

they won't

see the unraveling

of wool.

i'll try

to keep it out of sight

the whole day.

keep it covered.

no need for anyone

to think less of me,

in any way.

remember us? we're leaving now

the fading

movie

stars,

and long in the tooth

actors

are fleeing the country.

disturbed

by the new

regime.

how can we live in such

a place,

in our mansions,

driven

by chauffeurs

in our limousines?

maybe Ireland,

maybe France.

someplace where we

can drink

and sign autographs,

be appreciated for who

we used to be,

and dance.

the gypsy's baby

near Barcelona, 

in Castle de Fels,

we worried

that our mother would sell us

off to the gypsies

who stopped

their wagon

and horse at the front of our house.

what did they want?

money,

us?

they'd wail

in some strange

language

and hold up their brown

babies,

as if an offering,

a thin man holding the reins

held back

the enormous horse.

we lifted our eyes

just above the windowsill

until the woman

draped in black

gave up.

the one room schoolhouse

your father

tells you about his one room

school

house in

Halifax.

and there it is.

the black and white photo

of a dozen or

so children,

of all sizes and ages,

weights

and heights.

and there's a dog or two

as well.

you can see

a small horse

tied outside the window,

trees and snow.

and beside the sitting

children

in the front row

is a teacher

with a ruler, unsmiling.

eating anchovies in bed

commercials

and advertising have the opposite

effect on me.

i vow

to never buy that product,

or that car,

or vacation in that

country

that they keep promoting

on tv.

the more someone

insists

that i must do or have

something,

the more i resist.

if someone tells me that i just

have to

go eat at Moe's restaurant

and eat

the fried fish.

i make a mental

note of it to never

go there.

i'd rather eat anchovies

at home

instead.

it's a normal headache

it's a normal

headache,

a tension headache

i guess you'd call it.

it's a light pounding

around

and in the cranium,

making me rub my

neck and twist it around

trying to relieve some

of the pressure.

i put a cold rag

on my forehead and lie

down.

i take three Tylenols,

extra strength

then put my feet up

on the couch.

i ask her to please 

stop talking for a while,

close the curtains,

and to turn

off the tv

and to put her phone

down.

i ask her to please take

her cat and dog

and talking

parrot home and to never

bring that banjo

over again.

i'm beginning to realize

that i only get these

headaches,

when she's around.

and just like that

you wake

up

one morning and realize

that nearly

everyone

is younger than you.

the postman,

the policeman,

the teachers,

all the clerks and workers

at the store.

it's just you

and grandma

Moses

down on the corner

in this Cul de sac

that remembers

the Viet Nam war.

the red tricycle

yesterday,

the boy, the little kid

next door

was on his red tricycle,

rolling down

the sidewalk,

pedaling

as fast as he can.

and today

i see him leaving

in his car,

his suit on,

his keys dangling in

his hand.

where has the time gone?

i see people over there, let's wave

if you own

a boat,

or are on a boat, it's mandatory

to wave

to other people

in their boats,

or to people on the shore

looking at you.

it's a hard and fast

rule

of seamanship.

whether a cruise ship,

or yacht,

sailboat

or power boat, or even

a canoe,

you have to let them know

that

you're living best life.

you smile and wave

and they

wave back at you.

the breath of winter

could

it be that we're almost done with

March.

the whip

of time

leaving its windy

mark

upon us.

the breath of winter

turning

warm,

overnight it seems.

what's next.

three inches of snow,

of course,

sneaking

in

for one last winter storm.

the slow crawl through Old Towne

in Old Towne,

from

out of nowhere she would

appear

from behind

a car

with her dog

on a leash.

she was no more than

four foot tall

or less.

i almost ran her over

several times

in bad weather,

my windshield

fogged

with the wipers going

at full

task.

she'd look at me

from almost under

the bumper

of my car and give me

the one finger salute.

but it wasn't my fault,

that she

wasn't tall.

the pretty black street with new lines

occasionally

the county would pave

the street black

again.

filling potholes

and cracks.

which we appreciated,

having turned

our ankles

and knees in so many times. 

but it meant

that we had to get

a gallon of white

paint somewhere

and paint

the field lines once more

for all the sports we played.

bases for kickball

and stick ball,

an endzone,

four square

and a giant circle for

catch and release.

the party of love and joy

the party

of joy and love,

of empathy

and compassion is in full

riot gear

throwing Molotov cocktails

at electric cars.

they're storming

hotels

and colleges, wearing

masks of course,

cowards that they are.

disrupting

other's lives,

for some extremist cause.

children set

free like bees in a fallen

hive.

anxious to sting,

anxious to kill the other

side.

Frank's passing

the butcher's son

is behind

the counter, Stan, a spitting

image of Frank,

his father,

he's less wide perhaps,

but taller

and the same mustache.

his apron

is streaked in blood.

where's 

Frank, i ask, staring

at the meat

behind the slant of glass.

he passed, the son,

says matter of factly.

died in his sleep five

days ago.

how can i help you?

we have a sale on T-bones,

and rib eyes,

can i wrap you up

a few?

i haven't changed a bit

with no

small amount of satisfaction

i read

the notice

by the ex-wife that she's

divorced again.

through no fault of her own,

of course.

she's posted her

new victim status online

for the world

to read.

for her followers

to give her hearts

and likes.

i feel pleased

with this

knowledge for some reason.

i guess i am that

petty and small person,

just like she said i was,

so many years ago.

let's fight a little longer

the two

armies, fighting for years

in trenches,

are uneasy

about a cease fire.

then what?

back to our jobs, our

farms

our children and wives,

back to what?

a suit and tie,

nine to five?

let's fight a little longer,

if you don't mind.

we're good with that,

as long

as no one else dies.

maybe a loin cloth?

she wanted

to spend a week a nudist colony

near Brighton Beach.

it will be fun, she said.

doing her toenails

with a cherry red

paint.

to be free like that with no

clothes, no shame,

no hiding

behind

the latest trend, how nice

that would be,

don't you think?

who are you, i asked,

lowering the newspaper

and sipping

my tea.

a whole bag of licorice

i knew

that eating so many sticks

of black

licorice

with ruin me.

but i kept at it.

i had a whole

bag and no one was home.

i could blame

it on the dog,

claim

it was stolen.

how could they ever know?

and then

the rumble of my

belly began

making me crawl

to the bathroom.

which was

where they found me

with a thick coat of black

upon my tongue.

the human Ambien pill

i begin

to drift off when he talks

about

the economy, politics.

i hide a yawn

with my hand

and glance at my watch,

but he's in

full pitch,

telling me all the things

that are wrong.

he's a human

Ambien

pill, as i try to grip

my chair

and hold on.

the beat goes on

is there

anything or anyone that

needs

me?

will my absence cause

them pain,

make them

suffer to any degree?

will the weeds

and vines

in the yard

keep at it,

the leaves that fall

without

ever being raked,

will they care,

and what

about the cat.

aloof as always, licking

one paw,

then the other

before wiping her

ears in the sun.

will she survive when

i'm gone?

of course she will.

the earth and all it holds

will continue.

and as that great philosopher

Sony Bono once sang,

the beat will go on.

better at farewells

i'm better at

farewells,

departures, waving from

the boat

or train,

to someone left

behind.

i prefer the past

to the present.

i can manipulate what

has been, pull its strings,

make it into

something it never was.

i can artfully

gauze the lens,

wrap in sepia,

then print.

a summer rain

the rain

is

unwelcome, and yet

it keeps

coming down,

disregarding our contempt.

ignoring

our

attempts

at getting out from

under it.

we are without umbrellas,

or a package

to hold over our

heads.

we'll be wet,

soaked before we get home.

but we

don't care,

we're in love and nothing

else matters much

anymore.

make my day

exhausted,

i retreat,

i fold my arms across

my chest

and sit

back in the chair.

i've said

what i've wanted to say,

and now

it's your turn.

please state your

erroneous case,

go on,

make my day.

be careful son

it's what

snakes

do. my father said.

step on them,

scare them

from their

hiding places

in the brush

and they rise and bury

their

fangs into

you,

giving you an unhealthy

dose of venom.

be careful,

be very careful with

women,

my father told

me, swearing that it's true.

hot dogs and beer

as the stock

market tumbles with

world

economic 

issues

causing confusion and fear,

i go to my

bedroom

and lift the left corner

of my mattress,

the envelope full

of untaxed

cash is still there.

it should get me

through April,

as long as i stick to

hot dogs

and beer.

choosing what to give up

do they

think about love?

do they lie awake at night

alone

with

longings.

natural desires,

wondering if they've

made

the right decision

to be here

in this convent,

committed to God?

does it pass

like it does for my

longing for

a cinnamon

roll hot out of

the bakery oven,

pinching my

belly,

as i walk quickly past?

is today any harder

than the next?

unsafe at any speed

she had

a heavy foot despite

being

five foot

tall and weighing a hundred

pounds

soaking

wet.

she liked to drive her

trans am

as fast as she could,

with the radio turned up,

the windows

down, speeding forward

with a red light,

or stop sign

a mere thirty yards away.

she used drink

and smoke

while she drove,

rarely using her seat belt.

it was a long

time ago, but when i see

in her the grocery

store now, a silver haired

grandmother, she's still

flying down

the aisles.

crazy enough as it is

would the world

be more interesting with

vampires

and goblins,

loch ness monsters

and big foots

roaming

the woods.

would we be more entertained

with the likes

of green

aliens

and ghosts.

things that go bump into

the night,

but remain unseen?

perhaps,

but isn't it crazy enough as

it is?

i still have the stapler though

we were

called into the meeting

on Friday morning,

bright and early.

and then

the boss

spoke to us as we sat

nervously in our seats.

it is what it is,

he said.

we've run the numbers

up the flagpole,

we've kicked the tires,

but this old horse

is dead.

we can't bring it to the trough

to drink

water anymore,

not that it ever did.

we looked at one another,

and shrugged,

murmured, what

the hell is he talking about.

is he drinking?

it's not you, it's me, he said.

the numbers don't lie.

it's the economy.

it's the price of eggs.

so we have to let many of you go.

but thank you for

working here.

you have ten minutes to pack

your things

and leave.

i'm sorry, but it is what it is.

then he called 

for security to swiftly move in.

much to your displeasure

because

you overslept,

i ate

the last peach in the basket

on the table.

so sweet.

the juice ran down

my chin.

you'll know

when you get up

that it's gone.

but not the seed,

or me,

much to your displeasure.

in search of the fountain of youth

i stare

at one particular set

of fairly

new wrinkles around my

eyes

and with my fingers

i push hard on them,

spreading

the skin, trying to get

them back

to where they used

to be. flat and smooth.

i pull my face

back

with the heels of my

palms

to give myself that monkey

look, like the skin

of a tambourine, but

then it all, like a rubber band,

just pops back into place.

people say,

don't worry about it.

they're laugh lines,

lifelines.

the history of a life well

lived, laughter

and tears.

be proud of them.

i shake my head and sigh,

then google

face creams.

man's best friend

i'm taking an extended holiday,

which may

go longer

than expected.

i pack

the enormous

blue suitcase

and wheel it to the door.

i look around

for what i might be

forgetting.

but nothing comes to mind.

the plants are on their

own.

the dog too, the wife,

the children,

the mother-in-law

up in her attic room.

i'll call when i get there,

i yell from the hall,

before going out the door,

but there's no response.

everyone is busy staring

into their phones.

there's just a low growl from

the worried dog.

down sizing

we're downsizing

she tells

me on the phone.

getting a smaller home

to dwell in.

a smaller

yard,

a smaller bedroom,

a smaller

kitchen. in fact it's

just going

to be me now,

she says

while hammering

a nail,

just me

living happily alone.

a little crazy is okay, but not a lot

despite their best

efforts at it,

you don't

have to be drunk

or drugged,

or heartbroken or poor,

lonely

and ignored

to make great art.

crazy is not a prerequisite

for creativity.

some think

it helps but

i have my doubts.

the blue vase on the mantle

it was just

a vase,

nothing from the Ming

Dynasty.

but from

Target

that i bought on sale

and carried

home

with sheets and towels.

a blue vase that

stood

tall enough

for the mantle.

it reminded me of

the color of your

eyes

in summertime.

and then

the cat

came with her curious

paws

and tail.

lion kings

can you

have too much muscle?

so many,

so large and tight

that the veins pop

on your skin.

people

stare at you,

make way

for you when you're

coming through

the door.

the hours

of pumping iron

in the mirror.

the weights,

the stretches,

the accolades and cheers,

but it doesn't matter,

because

the rest of life,

love

and death is still

hard

despite the roars.

musical nights

the drip

the drip, the drip

gets

me up

in the middle of the night

to turn

the spigot tighter.

it's music

in a way.

the splatter onto

the chrome

drain.

a drumstick

on a tambourine,

a concert about to begin.

i'll get up

tomorrow night

and turn

it off again.

approaching dark

approaching

dark

in the cold wind,

lightly clothed,

and lost.

i wonder

if i will survive

a night out here

in this

immense forest,

this park.

the car is somewhere,

down

some path

to the lot.

i have no water no food,

my phone is dead.

i've lost my way,

not knowing

east from west,

walking

and walking

not marking or seeing

where i was

going,

not a bread crumb dropped,

hour after hour

lost in thought.

it's not unlike most days,

minus

the trees, the rushing

stream,

the trembling wash

of silvered

rocks and in the darkened

brush nearby 

the eyes

of startled fox.

dwelling on that for a while

there are other

things

to think about, more

important things,

but the mind doesn't work

that way,

does it?

no.

it's a dog without a leash

wandering around,

picking up

whatever new

scent it finds

and dwelling on that

for a while.

a deep forgiving sleep

i don't want

to lose

my marbles, get dementia,

or whatever

else is out

there that fogs the brain,

and leaves

me being spoon-fed

oatmeal at the hand of

a stranger.

so i do Wordle, and crossword

puzzles.

mathematical equations.

i read and write.

i paint.

i sit back and on my fingers

and toes,

i count all the girlfriends

and wives

i've ever had.

a few that i still know.

but the counting makes me

drowsy,

makes me sad,

i begin to doze off

and lose count,

falling into a deep

forgiving sleep.

can it be eleven already

can it already

be eleven a.m. in the morning.

half the day

gone

and not a single thing done,

other than

coffee and toast,

with

pajamas still

on.

the paper retrieved from

the bush in

the front yard.

the lot is empty

down to the mailbox.

most the young folk

are gone.

off to work, with thirty

more years

in front of them.

i should get dressed and

leave the house,

put on an air

that life is still going on.

a wedding goes by

for a moment,

with traffic stalled due to a wedding,

i see

the bride

and groom

leaving the church,

waving

to well wishers

in a flurry of rice.

the bride in

a virginal white dress, 

the groom

in the best

suit he'll ever

own,

measured twice.

cans tied to the bumper

of the long

black car, and on

the side is written

in soap, halleluiah,

grand opening

tonight.

summer mornings

i didn't leave

the house

without my scout knife,

folded

in my

large dungaree

pocket.

a few marbles in case

a game

broke out

in the playground

dirt.

a pack of gum of course,

my short

black comb

to keep my cowlick in

place.

some nickels and dimes,

a quarter

for the ice cream

man.

a clean t-shirt

and a pair of chuck taylors

white

and laced,

though

slightly marred with

green stripes

from the lawn i mowed

yesterday.

the clearing of his desk

his desk,

still neatly cluttered

with

papers

and bills,

a magnifying glass,

his wallet,

empty but for a twenty

dollar bill

and an expired

license. there's

a picture of his dog

and calf

taken

in Nova Scotia

eighty-five years ago.

it's in black

and white.

he looks happy in

the blonde

field

behind him.

i fill the box with

his things,

then turn

off the light.

you don't plan this

you

don't plan this.

there is no book, or

manual

to go by.

you just suddenly

arrive

at this age.

impossible you think

while reading a book

in the sun,

stretching out

your sore limbs.

wasn't

it just yesterday

you were throwing

a ball against

a wall,

with your mother

calling you in

for dinner?

any more gravy

my mother

ate

most of her meals standing

up

in the kitchen

while we

sat, served, and hungry.

go on,

she'd say,

still stirring a pot,

doing something

we couldn't see.

i'll be in shortly,

she'd say,

and then

finally, she'd come out

and ask us

how it was.

okay?

it's great mom, any more

bread,

anymore

gravy?

supporting the opera

the tax

lady

smiles as she hands back

my ledger

and my

completed forms.

she adjusts her wig

and slides

her cat

across the counter.

you only have to pay

twelve thousand

to the feds

this year,

and three to the state,

she says.

sign here

and here and here.

the people

in Pakistan are grateful

for your

money

and in helping to get their

transgender

opera off

the ground.

why are you crying?

three clocks

in the house

are finally right,

telling me

the correct time.

i had to wait a year

to spring forward,

but at last,

nine is really nine.

what else have i fallen

behind on?

your birthday,

our anniversary?

why are you crying?

just tell me what you want

i can see

the frustration on my dog's face.

his inability

to clearly

communicate what's wrong,

what's bothering him.

i go down the list,

food, take a walk,

your squeaky toy

is lost?

water?

are you thirsty?

scratch your belly?

what is it?

the tv? you want me to change

the channel?

okay.

okay.

animal planet it is.

crying wolf again

every few

months

we're told that the government

will shut

down on Friday

if a bill

isn't passed

putting in place

a new budget.

what the hell are they talking

about?

what

kind of a clown show

are we running

congress?

i yawn and shake my head.

whatever.

go ahead.

who cares.

the end of the world again?

somehow i doubt it.

but i appreciate

the less traffic.

motel insomnia

i can't sleep,

but

it's not because

of the bed, or the room,

the smell

of the place,

the mold,

the old smoke from

1988.

it's not the noise

of the tv

through the wall,

or the coughing

and arguing.

the hum of the radiator

making

it too hot

or too cold.

it's not the children

running down

the hall

at midnight.

a dog barking.

a strange knock at the door.

it's none of that.

it's the pillow, stiff

and hollow

as a raft

that won't fold.

Gypsy Woman

i see

the gypsy up the street sitting

on her stoop

smoking a cigarette,

she's got a beer

between her knees

and is nibbling on what looks

like fried

frog legs.

there's a for-sale sign

in her yard.

moving? I ask her.

yup, she says.

i'm nearly out of business.

this stupid 

AI

is taking over.

damn that Elon Musk

and his little

minions.

you ask AI a question and it

tells you

exactly what might happen

next.

i can't compete with it.

on my best days i was right

just half the time

as you well know when i told

you to go ahead

and marry that woman.

i haven't used my crystal

ball in months

or my Tarot cards.

i'm selling everything

this weekend in the neighborhood

yard sale.

Ouija boards,

half price.  a black cauldron,

and some

magic potions, you name it.

an old broom too

that i used to ride around

on at night.

i think it may have been your

ex-wife's.

the stories they must have told

we had

birds, dear Lord, did we

ever have

birds

in the back yard when we

put up the bird

feeder.

swung from a high pole.

birds of every

feather,

from bright red,

to black,

to shades of sparrow gold.

we couldn't

fill it fast enough

with seed.

they passed the word around.

and they

came in droves,

in flocks,

and then

i took it down when it was

just me.

but

what stories they

must have told each other,

winter into spring.

while becoming van Gogh

i tell my

new

friend Laura that i'm an artist.

i sketch

and paint

in both oils

and acrylics.

i have an easel, brushes,

the works,

all sorts

of little jars of paint.

all i need is a model

to create

my masterpiece.

you'd be perfect.

now turn your head to the right

i tell her

when she comes

over to pose.

now left.

here, let me help

you with

that tiny snap

on the back of your dress,

let's see

the shape of you, get

you out of these

bulky clothes.

a tragedy in brown

when

my neighbor moved in.

he installed

artificial grass in his

backyard.

long strips of cut

turf,

resembling a golf

course.

on the weekends

he vacuums it.

he sweeps and dusts

the fake

green plants.

it's a beautiful yard.

God knows what

he thinks

when he looks out

the window

at mine.

a tragedy in brown.

the list is in the top drawer under a book by Norman Vincent Peale

i'm better at counting

worries

than i am

at counting

blessings.

i blame my mother for this.

fears are on the list,

future

debacles,

trouble

looming ahead. i'm

well versed

in the weight

of negativity.

but the blessings,

though many

i keep in a drawer

beneath a book,

it's a rarely

read list.

strange art

they

called him meanly,

jack

the dripper,

referring to his style

of painting.

laying

the canvas or board

flat

onto the floor

of his garage

and taking

house paint, spilling

it all over.

dripping it with brushes

or sticks.

he drank

a lot, they say. he smoked

terribly,

cheated on his wife,

argued and fought

religiously.

it was strange art

that now cost millions

to buy.

one critic said one painting

resembled

a pan of baked

lasagna.

i stare at my shelves

of cans

in the cellar,

reds, greens, yellows

and whites.

i'm very bored,

perhaps it's time.

when the famous poet dies

when

the famous poet dies,

and becomes

even more famous,

they set

off to study his belongings.

his desk,

his room,

his books.

his loves

and dislikes.

did he put his pants

on, like

you or I?

they dissect him with a knife

deciding what

made him tick,

and yet

still have no clue,

missing always what's

unsaid between

the lines.

the children at church

the children,

pale

face and dark, bewildered

by

this long

morning, ordered to kneel

or stand up,

the gravity

of it all has not set in,

their minds

are elsewhere,

wandering

while the long

sermon

bathes them like

a dry wind.

there is the playground

to get to.

the sandwich,

the pretty

girl in pigtails,

the boy

in his vest

and shiny shoes with

hair combed,

behaved

for this short while.

Mickey and Minnie rip

i never thought

it possible,

but i feel bad for mice,

once a menace

appearing

in the dead of night

scurrying across

the kitchen floor,

they now

are a scientist's delight.

poked

and injected,

starved

and overfed,

made addicted to drugs

and alcohol,

cigarettes

and sugar.

their biological sex changed,

and reversed.

blinded

and cut open,

always under the microscope

in the guise

of science and keeping

people healthy

and alive.

a rough night

it was

an active night,

sleeping

alone.

the dream is blurred

and fading.

i wake up with a pulled

muscle

in my back.

i wish i could remember

what i was doing,

or who i was

with.

slowly i get out of bed

and stumble

to the shower.

shaking my head.

nights like this

can rough.

leaving the orange chicken behind

we met

online, a dating site for singles.

we agreed

on a Chinese restaurant

at the edge of town.

she forgot to tell me,

until after

the egg rolls arrived,

that she was

still married

to a steelworker

who

threw hatchets for fun.

we're separated, she swore,

with a twinkle

in her eye.

she was waiting for me

in the lot,

in a truck.

a Ford F-150,

with her leg hanging out the window,

which i took for some reason

as a good sign.

it was a nice long leg,

pale and smooth

with a cowgirl boot

at the end.

we had mai tais,

and orange chicken.

it went well until her husband

showed up

wielding a hunting knife,

causing me to run like

an Olympic sprinter

through

the kitchen.

never saw her again.

i still shake my head though

over the leftovers

left behind.

there's a hole in the bucket

millions,

billions,

it's hard to understand

these numbers.

our tax dollars.

it's shocking

where it all goes.

who came

up with these crazy ideas

to spend our

hard earned money

on.

i want names, i want faces.

i want

handcuffs.

i want the perp walk,

the mug shots,

the shuffling of criminals

in a long

line.

she had other needs

he kept

birds,

pigeons

on the roof

in cages.

he gave them names,

tagging

their legs,

letting them

fly

far away.

he was always

with them

on the roof

waiting for their return.

he wasn't a bad

person.

wasn't this

proof?

his wife

disagreed though,

she

had other needs.

if this spaceship is rocking

they've been

in space

for almost a year,

men

and women.

an attractive

and intelligent group

of astronauts

with good teeth

and good hair.

they eat, sleep, drink,

play games,

work

and think while

staring out the window

at a trillion stars.

but are they having sex

up there?

why did he bring cologne

and her

perfume and something

inflammable

but sheer?

who goes

a year without Betty

floating over

to have some monkey

business

in back of the space

station

where they store

pints of tequila

and liters of beer.

the night shift

i understand

the day shift, the night

shift.

the blue

collar job,

the white collar

position

in a cubicle from

nine to five.

i understand dirt

and grime,

paint

and sewage,

low wages and long

hours.

i know

what blood is,

what

cuts are, what sore

knees

feel like

at the end of a day.

i wouldn't trade

any of it

for more money,

savoring the lessons

i've learned.

the mistakes

i've made.

go figure

the boy's face

was in

the shape of a perpetual

question

mark.

the brow

deepened with

lines,

an uncertain frown.

and when

i saw

him again, forty 

years later.

he still was unsure

of himself,

still

with his feet 

in uneasy ground.

but he was

rich and had a pretty

wife.

go figure.

the silent treatment

i like getting

the silent

treatment.

it's a wonderful thing

to hear

that door slam,

and you

going off to sleep

in the other room.

to not

hear

the screams,

or the old arguments

over and over

again.

i can almost hear

a pin

drop.

truly, silence is golden.

the shopping boycott

i do

extra shopping today.

this day

of a shopping

boycott.

i start early by

buying

more things

i already have,

or don't need.

i take out my credit

cards,

my check book,

my cash,

and dance around the stores,

i go online.

i buy whatever my

heart desires,

i'll have this and this,

and this,

and oh, i'll have

some of that.

the food chain

is it

the same on land

as it is

underwater?

big fish

eating little fish.

the food

chain

in a predictable

order.

nature taking its

relentless

course. the weak

and small

becoming

breakfast, lunch

and dinner.

done with people

she tells me,

in all seriousness

that she's

done with people.

people in

general.

they're mean and rude,

she says,

there's

no courtesy

or manners out there.

there's no respect

for one another

anymore.

maybe there never was,

but we played

the part,

we said hello, we held

doors.

we were polite.

those days have sailed.

giving us hope one slice at a time

if i saw

her in the kitchen,

early in the morning

on a Saturday,

sifting flour,

cracking eggs, and setting

out the big

board

to roll dough

onto.

i knew it would a good

day.

she was welcoming hope

of some kind,

a hope

she could

never express

with words, but

with the rising of

bread.

nothing will ever be the same

sometimes

it's a conversation,

a look

in someone's eyes.

maybe a kiss,

maybe a left

turn

on the road.

perhaps it's a movie

or a show,

a book

in your lap. maybe

it's death,

or new love.

a truth, a lie.

perhaps it's

a secret

that you've learned,

but it's a moment

in time,

where you truly believe

that nothing will

ever be the same.

with the hood up on a February morning

it's just a dead

battery.

nothing more or less,

easily

fixed or replaced.

a jump start

will do as well.

but it feels like

something more

on this frigid day,

standing in the slush

as she stares at me

from the bedroom

window.

it's a sign of some sort,

i'm sure of it,

an omen,

if you may.

winning in the end

i could

throw away the old pad

of paper

where we

kept score playing gin rummy

long into the night.

your name

and mine, side by side,

and underlined.

the columns of scores

below.

i could easily

toss this old pad

into the trash,

but why bother.

i like to win,

as i often did,

and this keeps that memory

intact.

will the well run dry?

as it is

with every well,

you

want to hear the splash

of water

when the bucket drops

by the rope

held in your old hands.

will it run

dry. will only a cloud

of dust rise.

will love

survive?

will there be more words

to fill

the thirst, the empty page.

will there

still be memories

to analyze?

how long

can you still write

and make

tears fall from your eyes?

a jamboree protest on capitol hill

i look out

my apartment window on

capitol hill

and hear

what sounds like seagulls,

or cats

screeching with their

tails stuck

under rocking chairs.

but no.

it's protestors singing songs

they just

made up,

something about Trump

and Elon Musk,

they're banging on trashcans

as they croak

out of tune

nursery rhymes,

pumping their pink

fists in the cold

Washington air.

Dr. Freud call your office,

you have a lot of work

to do.

the observant clerk

the clerk,

a young hipster woman

behind

the register,

bags my

groceries as they slide

up to her

on the conveyor belt.

you live alone,

don't you? she

says,

nonchalantly, as she

puts

one tomato, one avocado

and one steak

into the bag,

followed by batteries,

a box of hair dye,

and a

Consumer Report magazine.

divorced, and

living alone,

aren't you, she says,

not bothering to ask if

i have

coupons.

she knows i don't.

the afterglow and pillow talk

seconds after

a wild session of making

monkey

love

in the morning,

exhausted i stare up

at the ceiling

with a smile

on my face

hands behind my head.

she leans into me,

and whispers,

a penny for thoughts,

my love,

what are you thinking

about?

you look so happy.

pastrami,

i tell her,

stacked high on

two warm slices

of rye bread,

with mustard.

i'm just wondering if Katz's deli

in New York

delivers.

schisandra berries

i scroll

the phone. which keeps

me informed

on how

to continue living.

how to pray,

how to

keep from getting

dementia,

or going soft

in the belly. it tells

me how

to stay young, what

to read,

what to eat.

how to stay sane.

it tells me which pills

to take

or not take.

which vegetable is

good for

my libido.

i'm going out for

schisandra berries later

today.

after a nap of course.

and then the mailman appeared

i forget what i was going

to tell you.

something

of great importance.

something that

would change

the future of us.

i had it all worked

out in my mind.

each word

leading to another word,

but i've lost it.

i got distracted by a dog

barking

outside the house.

and then the mailman

appeared.

the first child

she has

no children, i can see that

by the hat

on her dog. the pinafore,

the necklace,

the pink chain,

the knit booties on her

paws.

the basket on her

bike.

all of it

a dead give away

as they ride to the park

for a picnic.

just the two of them,

with sandwiches cut

into small bites.

throwing money around

i look

at my tax dollars

and shake

my head.

this dollar going to a war,

this one

to a country

i've never heard of,

this dollar,

to examining frogs

in

Africa,

dogs

in Somalia.

chickens in Brazil.

the money,

my money, your money,

keeps flying

out the door.

and yet there's a pothole

that i hit,

or miss

nearly

every morning when

i drive carefully

to work.

it's very cold in here

my mother

kept

her house at 78 degrees

almost

all year

round.

but she was still cold,

still

wrapped

in a shawl,

a robe,

a gown.

socks and mittens.

her

husband,

her nemesis,

my stepfather kept

her

icy cold.

mercifully,

she was buried in a full

length mink

stole.

the non-binary blues

he's evil,

Julie says to me, adjusting

her nose

ring,

and scratching

her blue

hair.

he's the worst president

ever.

ever, she says, sipping

on her

soy milk

and eating dried

fruit wedges

and kale.

him

and that billionaire

are stealing

our money, taking away

our rights.

he won't let my son

who transitioned

into a girl

play

on the girl's softball team

this year.

he's evil.

pure evil.

but, he's trying to balance

the budget,

i tell her,

he's helping to end

two world wars,

he secured the border

and is getting

criminals off the street.

he wants no taxes on tips,

no taxes on

social security payments.

he wants to give everyone

a dividend from

the money saved this year

by DOGE.

so what,

she says,

someone last month called

me by the wrong pronoun.

he called me

her, instead of they.

i can't live like that.

i am non-binary, damn it.

i haven't been able to sleep

for weeks.

children

we had

a bad dog. a really bad

dog.

the barking,

the nipping,

the tearing up of furniture

and trash.

peeing

on table legs,

gnawing.

walking him was like

walking

a fish.

impossible.

so we put him into

the local

Dog School.

he graduated with honors.

then he

went to grad school.

four years later

we took him

home.

immediately

he peed in the middle

of the floor

and bit me.

we're taking him back

to get his

PHD.

next week.

we're hopeful that at

some

point

he'll run away.

tourists

we were

in 

Greece,

off a tour bus, off a ship

in the harbor.

tennis shoes

and ball

cap,

wearing a blue

Lion's football

jersey,

while

sipping a cup of Starbuck's

coffee,

and pointing

our phones

at some marble

statue

in an ancient courtyard.

that's nice,

she says to me.

i nod.

yup.

look at that rock over

there.

a table maybe?

could be, she says.

i'm hungry. you?

they're having baklava

on the ship

today

for lunch, maybe we should

hurry back.

get in here right now, Doris

i call

my secretary into the office,

yelling at

her on my father's

1950

wooden

intercommunication

box.

get in here.

get in here now, Doris,

right now!

she finally comes in.

explain to me these

books,

why are we in the red

this year?

what is your explanation

for all these

expenses? 

i'm not Doris,

she says,

i'm your wife, Betty.

you know

you're really not doing

well with retirement,

are you?

a small opening and they're in

it's the soft

pitter patter of paws

on the roof,

they're

looking for a way

in,

a window

or broken

board, a small

sliver

of entry to make

a home

in my home.

women are like that.

what are you wearing?

Dasha,

from Moscow,

calls me

on the phone, WhatsApp.

it's six o'clock

eastern standard time.

she asks

me what i'm wearing.

i describe

my jeans

and t-shirt, my boots

and hat,

which makes her laugh.

i'm dressed like a schoolgirl,

she says

seductively.

and i've been a bad girl.

i didn't do my

homework.

i have no idea

what time it is there,

but she wants

to play

on the phone.

she says there's no men

there anymore,

they're all off fighting

in that stupid

war.

if i was there with you,

she asks me,

tell me what

we'd do. tell me, my American

cowboy,

but make it short, i'm

really tired

and i'm hungry too.

never got the whip

because

the father used the strap

on the boy,

the boy

grew up

and whipped his own

children.

and they

in turn

whipped theirs.

i'm thankful that my

father

was rarely home

and ran

around

most nights chasing

skirts.

free lance obituary

i get a job

writing

obituaries. freelance,

five dollars

per line.

i interview the mourning

members

of the family

and friends

and jot down

a little about the deceased's

life.

tell me about him,

or her,

i ask politely.

what were his hobbies,

his successes,

what did he like.

was a good person,

a good husband or wife,

did he lie,

or cheat,

did he steal. did he break

every single

one of the ten

commandments at some

point in his life?

did he like his work,

or dread

the hours, and the dreary

duties he signed

up for?

was he well liked?

no? well,

okay, okay.

no worries here,

i'm adept at fiction

too, if that's alright.

the blind man next door

the blind

man

in the apartment next door

to me,

had a dog

and a white cane

and yet

i never once heard

him complain.

he had

a wife

who did that for him,

though she

could see,

not he, 

which made

all the difference

in the world.

the old town wig store

i stop

and stare into the window

on King

Street,

gazing into

the Wig Store.

i say to Emily, it must

be a front

for something.

are there really that

many wigs

sold?

blue, red, green, silver

and black.

all styles

are present. from

the modern day

hairdo,

to Jackie O.

should we go in?

no she says,

not yet, all in good time

though.

all in good time.

street shadows

who are

these

people taking all these

drugs.

wandering

like shadows

on the city

streets.

sticking needles into their arms,

snorting,

smoking, swallowing

the pills,

ingesting the weed,

the meth

and crack

that come across 

the border

or are home grown?

what madness are they

trying

to escape

or enter, making darkness

their final stop,

alone.

with lips pressed together

i see the young

couple

in the park, they are

entwined

on a bench,

her legs over his,

his arms

around her,

with lips pressed

together,

cheeks flush

with the cold and

something

akin to love or lust.

it stirs a fond memory

of mine,

now grown

old.

i press the button, but no one comes to save me

i finally

succumb to the endless phone

calls

from the telemarketers

and buy

the medical

alert system.

i get the necklace

and the bracelet.

one white,

one black.

i set the system up

in the house,

then

wake up every morning

and press

the buttons.

no one comes to save me.

no cop,

or paramedic,

no friends or family.

no one comes to see

if I've fallen and can't

get up.

so i cancel

the credit card

for future payments.

i'm free at last.

making a career move

you wonder

at what point does someone

decide

to become

a fire eater

in the circus.

putting a flaming sword

down his

throat.

at what point

did this seem like a good

career move?

did his wife

argue with him,

and suggest

a job at the post office

instead?

there is no middle ground

i try,

i try so hard to have

a discussion

with

my friend,

to find a middle ground,

to suggest

solutions,

to stop

with the name calling

and hatred,

to set aside our differences,

but it's of no

use.

his heart is black

and

frozen,

there is

no useful debate.

there's work to be done

there

are so many loose

ends

to tie

or cut

at the end of one's

life.

so much

left

in the refrigerator,

the dryer,

the cupboards,

bills

to be sent out.

notifications

sent 

to children

and an ex-wife,

that friend

across the way.

get the broom out,

there's work

to be done.

who wants any of these

store bought

heirlooms

now.

leave a light or two on

i leave

the porch light on

when

i go away

for a week or more.

i leave

a kitchen light on

too,

and a bedroom light.

i turn

on a radio

and put a 

dancing silhouette,

of me,

fan blown,

in the window.

there's more going on

here

in this house

when i'm away

than when

i'm here.

the annual clown show

i try

to watch the Oscars.

but 

can't.

i yawn.

i throw up in my mouth

a little

at

the dancing,

the songs.

the speeches

that go on too long.

it's a woke

party

of the elite.

everyone

dressed

like circus clowns.

wearing their politics

on their sleeve.

and the movies

stink.

what happened to plot,

to character

development,

to exploring the human

condition,

to stories

that grip the soul?

i get beat up a lot

i can't

help myself at times.

i troll

and provoke,

i use

cryptic

double talk to make

my

passive aggressive

thoughts

be known.

i'm a wise

guy.

sarcasm is my home

sweet home.

some get it,

and play along,

they poke back,

but

some don't.

so i get beat up a lot.

a treasure trove of beauty

this dump 

is art,

this fallen tree

on the gravel road,

this

murky

swamp,

the baby blue washing

machine

rusted

in the heap.

a pink doll with one

arm.

the cracked

mirror,

the torn coat,

dishes scarred,

vases and

bent cutlery,

the broken alarm

stuck

on three.

all art.

a treasure trove

of discarded

beauty.

not always music

the crystal ballerina

spins

on the velvet wheel

as the music

plays

a tinkling of sound.

it's a mystery to the child

who closes

the small

box and opens it,

again and again.

love is like that

sometimes.

writing her name in the dust

as i swat

a tumbleweed across

the living room

floor

and toss a load of laundry

down the steps,

i wonder

what's happened to Milagro,

my cleaning

lady.

what have i done

to upset her.

she's a hot head

at times,

but this is ridiculous.

it's been two

months since

she came to clean.

was it the no Christmas

tip,

in the greeting card?

no sodas

and chips in the fridge?

she's ghosting me,

ignoring my

calls.

i write her name

with sadness in the thick

dust,

layered

on the cabinet in the hall.

one two three four we don't want your.....

we could

send

more money to support

the war.

we could send

Larry

and Joe

and Karen

in their new uniforms.

more bombs

more

guns,

more of everything

they need

to stall

the fighting for another

ten years

or more. but

haven't we already

seen this

movie

a dozen times

or more?

we used to chant,

knee deep

in the reflection pool

in Washington,

in 1968,

one two three four

we don't

want your f..ing war,

but apparently

we like

war again.

we don't want you anymore

i can

still see the glow

in the dark

Virgin Mary

on my mother's

dresser.

her palms curdled

hard,

the rosary beads

and cross.

and her letter from

the archdiocese

of St. Thomas

More.

saying

she was

excommunicated

after

getting a divorce.

cold soup in apartment 1210

she invited me

for dinner in her studio

apartment

on the twelfth floor.

there were lighted candles

on her card

table.

the music on low.

she had her hair

down,

lipstick on.

the meal

started with soup.

cold soup.

i took a sip then

gently told

her that it was cold,

as if she didn't know.

she looked

at me and laughed

and said

it's supposed to be that way.

i said.

oh.

she said it's called

Gazpacho.

years later i ran into her

after she came back

from Portugal,

and she told

me that

she wished we had

made love

that night,

but the soup changed

everything.

what time can you come over?

i'm done

with nature, at least

for awhile.

i get nothing out of the trees,

or stream,

the woods

full of birds.

the pecking of beaks,

and chirps.

i've had my fill of greenery

and fall

leaves,

the rustic bridge across

the water.

i'm not skipping stones

anymore

or pondering

the clouds

reflecting in the lake.

i don't have a contemplative

thought in

my brain.

i need a break

from this tranquility.

so what time

can you come over?

they're hard to be around

women

can spot a loose thread

from a across

the room,
a rip

or tear in your shirt

or sweater,

they notice things.

the dollop

of icing on your nose,

the drip

upon your clothes.

they're

very hard to be

around

when you just don't care

anymore.

the mystery meat

as children

we'd

huddle around one

another

while one of us

would,

with a butter knife,

pry open the metal latch

on a can

of Spam.

we were out of peanut

butter.

out of bologna,

out of tuna fish.

we stared into the pink

slab of

gooey meat,

glistening in the kitchen

light.

we'd gulp and grimace

with

with clenched teeth

as the lid

bent back.

okay,

we'd say,

to one another,

who wants to go first,

then hand them

a spoon,

a slice of wonder

bread

and mustard,

then the blue can

dripping

with juice.

enjoying the free world

i spend

the day in bed

with books

and coffee

the dog and cat,

the tv remote nearby.

the radio

playing

softly.

i don't answer the door

or the phone.

i've made

my peace with the world.

no work,

no stress, no boss

or wife

to bother me.

it's a world i've never

known.

his tabasco sauce

i move

his ashes from

the mantle

to the kitchen table.

i make

coffee, i ask

him if he wants cream

in his.

he never did.

but i ask anyway.

i make

toast

and eggs.

i set a plate out for him,

the salt and pepper

shakers,

his tabasco sauce.

then we

sit

and eat.

the silence says everything.

snow days

if it

snowed and school

was out.

we'd

rustle up our coins

and go

to the movies.

the double

feature

was best.

the show didn't matter.

we were

entertained,

our minds soft with

imagination.

soaking it all in,

away

from life,

from our parents.

we had escaped for

a few

dreamy

hours while the snow

fell outside.

the rest of your tomorrows

you keep

walking until there's no one

around you.

there's no hand

in yours.

no voices,

no screams, no

babies

crying.

no sirens.

you are in

a wide field

of windblown grass.

no houses,

no farms, no graves

to grieve over.

no factories

to work in.

you stand

in the center of nothing.

you have

arrived at the middle

of nowhere.

once more willing

to begin

again with the rest 

of your tomorrows.

wake us up when it's over

there

are some countries that

you rarely

hear about.

they lay low,

out of the mix

of world

turmoil.

they eat,

sleep and drink.

they make

babies

and take long vacations.

they're drinking wine

in the sun,

stretched out

on a hammock.

while strumming a mandolin.

that's where

we need to go.

how to stop the war

why doesn't

Putin's wife,

or mistress slap him upside

the head

and make

him stop

this stupid, senseless

war.

where are the women

in this mess.

these chicks need to cut

these

men off.

the generals, the leaders,

the grunts in

the mud.

no more nookie

until the shooting stops.

no more

who's your daddy, until

the bombs

no longer drop.

no more snuggle time

until

a peace treaty

is signed.

Jake's Sunday calls

Jake would

call me from jail,

asking

me

for commissary money.

it was

a one way

call from the phone

on the jailhouse

wall.

the food is awful,

he'd say.

but my cousin is a deputy

here,

and says he'll go out

for some KFC.

i could hear his

roommates

banging

metal trays

against the bars,

threatening each other

with

deadly harm.

i'm going to bite your nose

off,

i hear one man say.

thirty more

days, i tell him.

just behave yourself.

and stop

calling.

hold your breath a little longer

i tire

of the tire

losing

air.

i go out and stare

at the bulging

rubber

nearly flat

on the road.

a pin hole

of anil

stuck

between the treads

somewhere.

come on,

i tell it, giving

it a kick.

stick with it.

just hold

your

breath for a mile or

two

longer.

get us down this

old

old road.

get me out of here

i avoid

the crowded rooms,

the large gatherings,

the busy

streets

or stores.

the malls.

the concert hall,

the stadiums.

i resist

the party invitations,

the weddings,

the birthdays.

i'm only comfortable

these days

with funerals

where it's okay to stand

quietly

alone.

i think i'll stay home

i find

myself finding more

and more

excuses to stay home.

the ice box

is full.

i already know the news.

it's windy,

it's cold, it might rain.

it might snow.

the traffic is backed up.

i might meet an

ex-wife

on the road.

not looking for trouble

i haven't seen

a frog

or a turtle in ages.

not even

a snake.

the woods used to be

full of them.

fox

and vultures,

skunks with

their stripes.

not that i'm looking

for any of them,

or for trouble,

but a little safe

wildlife would be nice.

the boy Labrador

the boy

was

more of a Labrador

than

a pit bull.

not lazy,

just likable and sweet.

easy

going. always

finding a circle

of sun

to lie in.

playful

and agreeable,

he didn't mind

the leash.

there was never a fight.

and then

i told him he had

to go

find a job,

which caused the barking

to begin

as well as the bites.

brother, can you help a country out?

like birds 

on a feeder,

there's

a line wrapped around

the white house.

princes and kings,

presidents

and queens,

parliamentary figures

from all over

the world.

it's the gravy

train

with their hats out.

we hate you, but we need

help.

brother can you spare

a few more

billion

to cure our ills,

to fight our wars, to feed

us,

to save us

from the rest of the world.

yes,

we hate you.

but please.

can you help a country out?

so what have we learned here

so what

have we learned,

i ask

the therapist as i write

her another

check.

what?

she says. what do you

mean?

so what

have we learned here in this

last session

with me

whining about my

life?

she stands up and brushes

the lint

off her dress.

we can discuss it next

week, she says.

but for today

your time is up.

can i be helped, i ask

her.

can you truly straighten

me out,

and get me back on

the right path.

we'll see, she says.

patting me on the shoulder

and opening the door.

but it's too early to tell.

washed up upon the shore

i've washed

up

upon this shore, onto

the soft

sea

of a green sofa.

the moon is gently

bathing

me in

its milky light.

at some point

i'll rise

and climb the stairs,

and say

to someone not here,

good night.

putting on our costumes

we learn

early as children that a costume

matters.

Halloween

brings

out the hero or villain

in all of us.

the monster,

or saint.

and we continue

on

in our adult years

with a golden suit

when singing

a song,

maybe 

a holy robe

to bless the flock,

a camouflage outfit

in jungle

green.

a cop in blue,

a sailor in white,

a lawyer with a red

tie,

a farmer in overalls,

the executioner in

black.

but we trick or treat

during the day,

though

occasionally at night.

three sides to every war

we can

extend this war with another

hundred

billion

dollars or so,

more tanks,

more missiles,

more guns and bombs,

or we could say,

no more.

let's make a deal.

have peace.

give in,

give up. stop killing

each other,

but there's

always at least

three sides

to every story,

to every war.

redacted again and again

we want

a deeper meaning.

the true

but

sequestered reasons,

hidden

from view.

we want names

and places,

dates

and times.

we want to cut through

the red tape,

through the mystery

of it all.

we want the hidden

files,

the redacted

type revealed.

we want to know

it all.

something, anything,

we're so tired

of fraud.