the Senator's number one priority

so what

are you worried about, the newsman

asks

the Democratic

Senator

heading to El Salvador

to rescue a gangbanger

covered in tattoos,

and gang colors.

who has been in front of nineteen

judges so far.

what plans

do you have in the future

for your constituents?

better roads?

and housing, maybe more

research and money

dedicated to disease and

addictions.

improve the schools and our

children's education?

what exactly do you want to

do during your

term as Senator

to serve your state and country.

what do you want your legacy

to be?

oh, he says.

pausing,

with tears in his eyes.

my number one priority

is to bring back

a known gang member

from his own country,

back to our state,

and set him free.

i don't care if he's

a man who belongs to

MS-13, a man who beats his wife,

and is here illegally.

and is suspected

of human trafficking.

nothing is more important

than this man.

i dedicate my every waking hour

to obtaining his freedom.

the bridges and roads,

education,

and cancer, etc. can wait.

the fate of democracy depends

on this man.

scheduling sex

what about

Wednesday night, i ask her.

between seven and nine p.m.

after softball

practice,

no, she says, i can't. i told

my sister that i'd

go shopping with her.

okay, okay.

how about Thursday then,

i wish, she says,

but i have meetings all day,

and after work

i'm going out with friends

to a movie.

Friday?

maybe, she says.

we'll see. my mother is making

dinner that night,

meatballs and spaghetti,

if you want you

can come with me.

hmm. Saturday?

sure, sure. that should work.

i'll get back to you on that,

but if not Saturday.

Sunday after church between

one and three

should be perfect.

i'll leave the key under the mat.

i'll be upstairs

taking a nap.

not quite whole foods study group

i've become one of them.

one of those

people that stand

in the middle of the aisle

at the grocery

story

reading labels.

examining the ingredients

of every jar,

can

and package that i might

put into my cart.

it's crowded.

some people have brought

their own

folding chairs and flashlights,

they scroll their

phones looking up words

they've never heard of.

researching the countries

that have caught these sardines,

or grew these tomatoes

in this red sauce.

we help each other,

warning each other, showing

the rashes on our arms,

relating how that brand

made us sneeze, or choke,

or gave us the hiccups.

giving blood

she tries

one arm, sticking the needle

in.

but no blood comes

out,

no blood drizzles

into

the line, 

then vial.

she pulls the needle

out,

rubs the vein,

then tries the other arm.

tapping

and wrapping a band

around.

ten minutes

later,

someone is

putting a pillow 

under my head

and making me

bite into an oatmeal

cookie

and sip from a dixie cup

of orange juice.

raised by wolves

i'm

wearing a white suit in the photo.

i'm twenty-two

years old.

a mere

child,

and yet i'm walking arm

in arm

with an even

younger person down

the church aisle.

this is what happens

when you're

raised wolves.

and there's

no one around

to give you advice,

or pull you

aside to tell you,

not yet, not now.

a picnic by the river

she insists

that we go on a picnic.

she's been looking at too many

Claude Monet

paintings.

she buys a basket

and makes

sandwiches with the crust

cut off.

cucumbers

and pate.

she packs two apples,

some cookies,

that she made,

a bottle of wine, corked,

and a glass

bowl of grapes.

isn't this romantic she says,

throwing down

the clean white

blanket,

not seeing the ants,

the field mouse,

and in pursuit

a slithering snake.

internal squabbling

because

of internal squabbling

and sibling disagreements

the traveling carnival

has split up into several

factions

this year.

they argued

over prices,

and retirement programs,

dental plans,

insurance.

who's turn it was to clean

the monkey

cages.

that's why there's only

the Scrambler

this year

in the mall parking lot,

and a cotton

candy stand.

next week half of the roller

coaster

will appear.

field after fields go by

on the way

to the eastern shore

we see

nothing

but farms, fields of soy,

corn.

we have nothing to say

to each

other anymore.

in the past

we would point out

an old

barn,

or horses,

cows, as we drove.

but now we roll the window

down

and let the wind

do the talking,

the tires on the road.

no fault of her own

through

no fault of her own,

one leg

was shorter

than the other, which

made it easier

to hear her coming

when she approached,

the larger shoe

clunking against the floor.

but i loved her

just the same, as she

loved me

with my multitude

of faults,

too many to mention here

in such short poem.

a passing fancy

we have

all been under one spell

or another,

whether

it's the spell

of love

and infatuation,

a political ideology,

a writer,

a poet,

a Hollywood actor,

or singer.

maybe it's a religious

cult.

but

we've all

drank the Kool-Aid

from someone we've

looked up to,

and brough more home,

for others to taste

and agree

with you.

please Oprah, tell me how to live my life

it's not

easy being a celebrity.

with everyone

loving you,

thinking your beautiful,

talented

and smart.

even after one Disney

movie

where you

played

a dolphin come to life.

a sequel coming soon.

you believe the adoration.

you want to

tell people who

to vote for,

where to spend your money,

how to live.

you write a book

about

eating vegetables,

and protecting

turtles.

you go on tv

to promote a face cream,

and Cheez whiz.

you want the best table

to eat at,

no lines for you.

you've arrived, but sadly

because you never read

a book

you're still dumb, still stupid.

the arc of words thrown

i ball up

the long letter that i just wrote

by hand,

on a clean

sheet of white paper.

i've read it over

a dozen times,

but have no intention of

mailing it out.

i can't decide if it's too harsh,

or too kind.

i toss

the ball of paper across

the room

to the trash can

where it sinks into middle,

with perfect aim,

swish,

onto a hundred

other balled

letters never mailed.

i'm getting good at this.

can we park here?

i have

never driven into the city

and parked

on a street

without getting a parking

ticket.

no matter

how many times i read

the wordy

signs,

loading zone

on Saturday,

no parking Monday

through Friday,

unless it's a federal

holiday.

street cleaning

on odd days, but even days

are fine.

Sundays only

if you have a permit,

or a handicap

sticker, but only

between the hours of

7 a.m. and 9.

and in red,

emergency snow road,

if towed,

please call, open on

Monday,

use online banking

to pay your fine.

fhe devil works in mysterious ways

how in God's name

we got

from

the empty tomb,

to the resurrection,

to this.

Christ risen

from the grave.

jellybeans

and marshmallow peeps,

chocolate rabbits

and parades,

i'll never know.

the devil works

in mysterious ways.

off the grid for two nights

tired,

of everything,

we move off the grid,

quit our

day to day lives

and move into

a log cabin in the woods

off the coast

of Newfoundland.

we're strong

people

with strong back bones.

but there's

no

electricity

or running water.

no food,

just living off the land.

neither of us can

skin

animals or sew.

in three hours we have

blisters

and callouses on

our hands.

we last

two nights,

then go back to town.

we're not

of that kind people.

we love coffee

and toilet paper,

television

and our phones.

next year we're travelling

to Iceland.

but staying

at the Hilton.

i just want ten minutes of your time

it was easy

dodging the door to door

salesmen

back in the day.

before

robo called took over,

calling you

a hundred

times a day.

when you saw the man

at the door

with his satchel

of cleaning products,

a new fangled

vacuum,

or encyclopedias,

or insurance plans,

you dropped

to the floor

and turned the lights off.

you held your breath,

until he gave up knocking

and went sadly away.

flying ice cubes

i crack

open a tray of ice,

the old fashion

metal type,

circa 1965,

an heirloom

from my grandmother.

i snap back the handle

which

sends

a few cubes flying

across

the kitchen

floor.

i'll find them later

when i step,

wearing socks,

into a cold puddle

of melted water.

a week in review

the stock market surges,

then drops.

immigration, protests,

schools shut

down.

trans athletes

on top.

crazy car burning mobs,

shootings,

deportations,

watching the wars

from afar.

violence and rhetoric,

politicians

pulling their hair out.

injunctions,

delays,

tariffs and trade,

judges and courts.

in total disagreement

over nearly every law.

Hamas and Putin,

Iraq

and Iran.

Musk

and Trump.

the Pope waving

with a small pale hand.

Biden bumbles and stumbles

all over again.

the Shroud of Turin.

eggs are up

eggs are down.

eating a ham

sandwich

at the couch while

the world

goes around.

next week, guess what?

more

of the same.

pass the mustard please.

the store limit of ten cartons of eggs

i see a woman

carrying ten cartons

of eggs

in her arms.

brown, white,

organic,

and farm raised,

made by uncaged chickens

who were

able to stroll

around the grounds.

ten cartons

is the posted limit for this store.

she's smiling

from ear to ear

as she sashays to the counter.

she's almost glowing

with contentment.

i have no idea,

what's going on,

but Easter is near.

the sugar high mass

on Easter

morning, before she chased

us out of the house

to go to church

in our new pants

and shirts,

we bit off

the heads

of chocolate rabbits,

disappointed

that they were hollow,

and stuffed

our mouths with jelly

beans

and yellow peeps

floating in the shredded

rainbow of

confetti in our Easter

baskets.

no one ate the colored eggs

which would

be around until June.

it was a jittery hour

at high mass,

squirming in our pews,

fidgeting,

and kicking our skinny legs.

filet o fish

like an old

big

fish, you too have

hook

marks and scars

on your lips

from being

wrangled to shore

by some damsel

in distress.

she reeled you in,

put you

in a bucket,

saying sweet things

all the way,

then took

you home to be deboned

into a malleable

filet.

two tin cans and a long piece of string

back when

we virtually had tin cans

attached

by string

in a phone booth, you

had to feed

it with coins

to make a long distance

call.

there was no

small talk.

you had to get to your

point, you were

on the clock,

before another five

quarters

went through the slot.

forget the weather,

the blah blah blah.

just tell me what's up,

when are you

coming home,

what airport and what

time can i pick

you up?

and then before

the call drops you ask

do you still love me?

but it's too late,

the operator has cut

you off.

ET go home

i see

the senator on tv

having margaritas in El Salvador

with the latest

hero

of the left.

a criminal deported.

although i'm sure

he's a fine

upstanding young man,

jobless

except when he's transporting

people

from Texas to Maryland,

in a van,

driving without

a license.

he's only

beat up his wife a few

times

that we know of.

a black eye or two,

some scratches

and clothes ripped off her.

according

to the police reports she filed.

the dispute was

something about burned

toast or playing

her music too loud.

he's wearing

a tropical shirt

and sandals, as he has

lunch with the Senator,

the Denny's grand slam,

and is doing his best to hide

his gang

tattoos

on his hand and head.

the senator wants him to

come home,

like ET, on his private jet,

although he's in the country

where he was born

and raised.

it's just another day.

another day of crazy

in the land

of the free, home of the brave.

a late spring snow

it's late spring,

but it's snowing.

we're in our shorts and 

t-shirts,

our sandals.

but it's coming down,

heavy

on the trees,

the streets are white.

we put away our skates

and bikes,

our volleyball and tanning

lotions,

we go to the big closet

to find our shovels

and salt,

our cross-country skis.

her tight leather pants

how many

times

have i asked you to not wear

those leather

pants

when you come over?

we never make

it out of the house

when you do that.

we're always late,

for the show, the party,

it takes you an hour

to get in and out

of them,

even if i help with the

shoehorn.

the key lime pie evaluation

i'm not convinced

that his key lime

pie

with a meringue

topping

is delicious.

a crumb crust

is holding it altogether

in a beautiful

dish.

the first bite

was quite delicious,

but this will take some time,

some milk

or tea to wash it down,

might help me

decide.

why cut a single slice,

when i can carry the whole pie

to the coffee table,

and take

my time.

avoiding the army

i think

Wednesday will be a good day

to go

see the doctor

to have him weigh me,

take blood from my veins

and spin a vial

of it

around in the lab.

he'll

look into various orifices.

maybe tap

my knee

with a little rubber

mallet.

he'll ask me

to look this way

then that,

i'll stick out my tongue,

and on command,

drop my

drawers

and cough.

at last he'll take my blood

pressure,

which will be

through the roof,

from fear.

will it keep me out of the army

again,

out of the draft.

i hope so.

please, dear God, stop whining people

here's what

you do if you don't like

your marriage,

your partner,

your friends.

if you don't like

your job,

or where you live,

the car that you drive,

the restaurant you're in,

if you don't

like your family,

or the circumstances

that you're stuck in,

or the country where

you live,

here's what you do.

first shut up and quit

whining.

no one likes whining.

then you leave.

it might take a day,

or year,

or more.

but make a plan and

stick to it,

pack your backs and

skedaddle.

leave. 

we don't want to hear your

whining anymore.

pricing by the pound

they weigh our meat

at the grocery

store.

steaks

and ground beef.

pork ribs,

and sausage.

they weigh the fish

and fruit,

produce,

flour and sugar.

everything goes

onto the scale,

measured

by the pound

or gram.

we pay a price

for what it weighs,

and yet

when we board a plane,

it doesn't matter

if you're skinny or

enormously round.

she's back home now

she sent

me

a picture of her under the Eiffel

Tower,

another

while standing in

the Roman

Coliseum,

riding a gondola in Venice,

one more

at the Plaza Hotel,

in her suite,

then a postcard

from Dubai,

with a picture of her

in a Mercedes limousine,

so it was strange to run

into her

at Walmart

buying a giant bag of

marshmallow peanuts,

toilet paper,

and Drano for her sink.

spring cleaning

a good spring cleaning

will

do the trick,

brighten the day.

let's get started, shall we?

open the windows,

throw up the shades,

rip off the sheets

and blankets,

bang the pillows and dust

off the shelves,

the sills,

the mantle.

let's get out the mop

and bucket,

the disinfectants

and sprays.

are you with me?

are you with me?

no? tomorrow?

okay.

the hidden thorns

beware

of the rose bush,

the flowering

red

and yellow

roses.

so beautiful

in the early morning sun,

but

go gently when plucking

them for

your vase

at home.

the bite is bloody,

as it is

with every

hidden thorn.

everything is hunky dory

it's easier,

when asked if everything is okay,

to say,

yes.

i'm fine, all is well.

and you,

how are you?

why tell them

about the bee sting,

the rash,

the tax bill. why get into

what your

mother said,

or how your children

won't take

out the trash.

there's no use telling them

about the line

at the store, what the dog ate,

or how your wife

doesn't love you anymore.

why burden

them with all the details

of your life

run amok.

it's better to just say,

i'm good.

i'm fine.

and how are you?

the memory of you is like gum stuck to my shoe

the memory of you

is exactly

like this pinkish grey

gum

stuck to the bottom

of my shoe.

i scrape at it day after

day,

but it's deep into the tread.

hardened

like old clay.

impossible to completely

gouge away.

maybe it's time

for a new pair.

maybe today is the day.

billions and billions

everything

is counted

in billions now.

tax dollars,

expensive handouts

and wars.

programs

for schools,

for the poor.

for windmills, and turtles

crawling

along the shore.

what it cost to do anything

is counted

in billions now.

the budget, the cuts,

the waste.

millions

is so old school.

mere drops in the bucket

of revenue.

the good thief on the cross

the good

thief

on the cross, is the one

we're

nearest to.

finding faith in the worst

of circumstances.

no longer

in fear

of death

or life. forgiven

and

about to enter paradise

in the blink

of an eye.

one good thing

it's a blessing

to find one good thing

to do

with your

hands.

with your mind, to stand

in one spot

or sit,

and make

something that you're

proud of,

something

that someone can

buy or use,

to eat or enjoy,

and thank you for it.

it's one

good day after another.

not as king or queen,

or even

prince.

just a person,

whether man or woman,

making their way in life

honestly.

eleven expensive minutes in space, barely

the Russians

sent

up a few dogs,

we sent up a few

monkeys.

nothing much

has changed.

things go up

and come back to

the ground

again.

now it's celebrities.

no buttons to push,

no levers,

no steering wheel.

just a window

and cushy seats.

not even a cup

of tang.

eleven minutes,

whoopee.

buried seeds

will

these seeds i've

buried

come up

soon,

will the rain

help?

will the sun

bake

the ground

and make

the sprouts rise.

is prayer

like

that?

tell me the truth.

no lies.

the sugar cube was the best

there

are things we had as kids

that

we

usually don't worry about

anymore.

measles,

the mumps,

whooping cough,

having our

tonsils taken

out.

we got all the shots

back then.

kids would miss school

for months

at a time

with scarlet fever,

or diphtheria,

small pox

and the German Measles

otherwise known

as Rubella.

we'd look around the classroom

and wonder

where the hell

Jimmy was

or Clementine.

they'd line us up in 

the cafeteria

and fire vaccines

into our

boney arms

as we tried to muzzle

our screams.

sometimes

the medicine would be

tucked away

inside a sugar cube.

sweet and squared like

dice.

we were inoculated from

head to tail,

through and through,

nearly every day

at lunch,

before we ate our Jello,

and dug into

our lunch pail,

a nurse would be sticking

a needle into our arms.

let's prove them wrong

insurance

companies are clever

with their actuary tables,

their

measures.

taking note

of your weight

and height,

your race

and lifestyle.

they know more about

you than

your own

mother.

they can predict within

a small

margin

of error, the length

of your life.

the years left

on earth

you have to survive.

let's prove them wrong.

the bastards.

things left on his desk

there

were things left on his desk.

a letter opener,

a stiff

blade meant

to cut open

a sealed envelope,

a magnifying glass he

used for

the small print

which was getting smaller

each year.

there were stamps,

and ink pens.

pencils in a jar,

erasers. cut coupons,

a calendar

placemat

with coffee rings embedded.

an address book with the name

and numbers

of all his children.

a check book

with one check left.

his will.

his wallet.

and a picture of his

dog beside

his bright blue car.

this will always be here

when

you're out in the middle

of the ocean.

it strikes you how

that this has always

been here.

always,

and will always

be here,

this vast sea of blue.

virtually

unchangeable,

and yet

you live your life a thousand

miles away

never giving

it a single thought

as you go about your day.

the rinse and repeat protests

the crazy thing

about

protests

is that they do absolutely

nothing

to change things.

they only annoy

and make

those that disagree laugh

and mock

their behavior.

sure

they're fun,

and exciting,

being with your like minded

friends,

screaming and yelling

at the top

of your lungs,

waving signs

and foaming

at the mouth, but in the end,

for what,

to what end?

should we meet here 

next weekend?

rinse and repeat

all over again?

five consecutive sneezes

after sneezing

five

times in a row,

and coughing

up

a wind filled wave

of pollen,

the dog

looks up at me and wonders

if this it,

how will i live

on without him?

how will

i get the bag of food

off the counter

and drag it

to my dish.

who will walk me

and throw

the ball to me?

i see worry in his eyes.

who will brush me

and get

ticks off of me?

what about water,

i can't reach the sink

or turn

the knobs. i'm a dog

dammit.

and then,

i'm suddenly okay.

and he lets out a big

sigh

before circling three

times to go lie

down on his cushion

in the corner.

he didn't want to work for money

my son

told me once when he was about

34

that he didn't

want to work

for money.

he was above such labor.

he didn't want to waste

his life

on mundane

tasks at some job

he had

no interest in.

he was creative

an actor, a singer, a dancer.

no factory work for him.

no office,

no construction

job, or trade.

he'd been living on the west

coast for

sometime now,

a mother

nearby,

a girlfriend who didn't

mind working

and paying

for all they had.

i cringed

and thought about

his college tuition down

the drain.

i stared at my hands,

worn

from 40 years of work,

cuts

and calloused.

curled with the tools i held

onto,

hoping that work would

never end.

in love with a bartender

there

was a bartender in a bar

called

Bojangles down

on M street,

Dixie.

short blonde hair,

blue

eyes. she may have

been from

Finland,

or some far away place

where everyone

is pale

and knows how to ski.

but she knew what i

drank, a long pour

of vodka

over ice and tonic,

a slice of lime,

it was waiting on the bar

for me

when she saw

me coming down

the stairs with

hair blown,

cologne splashed

on my face.

grinning from ear

to ear to see her.

then she was gone.

someone told me she

moved to Colorado.

i still think about looking

her up

for one last pour.

how could she leave me

this way.

when the party ends

it's not over

overnight, it never is,

but it feels

that way,

as if this party

will never end,

this current life,

of love

and fun,

dancing the night

away.

making wishes

on stars,

throwing coins

down

wells, into fountains.

the frivolity

comes

to a halt,

and you wake up one morning,

suddenly old,

missing so many

friends.

we want our criminals back, dammit

some

people want to send the criminals

out of the country,

while others

want to keep them

here

and take care of them.

feed and clothe

them.

save them from themselves

and their criminal

lives.

and if they're

gone, sent

back to their home countries,

they want to bring them

back here,

at all costs, despite

the charges,

despite the crimes.

it's an upside-down world

sometimes.

the Chinese fortune cookie

i could

never quite figure out if my dog

truly loved me,

or just showed

affection

because i may have

wiped

my fingers

on my pants after

eating

a leg of fried chicken,

or a slice

of pizza from Ray's Original.

he loved

my sweaters

and coats,

full of crumbs,

chips

and spills,

remnants of cinnamon

buns.

he couldn't wait for me

to get home

and jump

into my lap

to dig into my pocket

for a Chinese fortune

cookie.

business has been slow

i care little about

things

i used

to care about a lot.

the weather,

fashion,

what's on tv,

the price of eggs

or cars.

haircuts,

visible scars.

i just don't care anymore.

i have

what i need.

i'm no longer the shopaholic

i used to be.

same goes for love,

that shop

is temporarily closed

for now,

business has been slow.

she knew where everything was

if we couldn't find

something,

we had

a magician living in our

house.

we called her

mom,

or mother sometimes.

she knew where

everything was,

no matter

how obscure it was,

hats and shoes,

baseball gloves,

books,

pens and paper clips.

a pet turtle

or box of rocks.

she had eyes in back

of her head.

she knew

what was in every closet,

every nook and cranny

of the house,

basement or attic,

and sadly

what we hid beneath

our beds.

the same old tired words

it's easy

to dislike politicians.

slick

and well groomed.

rich

and smart.

they look good coming

into a room.

but then

they open their mouths

and out comes

the same old words 

you've been listening

to since you

were a child.

promises

and vows made,

none of them ever done.

the maintenance man Podcast

like almost

everyone, the Super in my

building,

Frankie,

has a podcast.

he's on YouTube

and 

X.

Facebook

posting videos of what

his day is like.

the backed up

toilets,

the bugs

and mice. dealing with

angry

tenants who come home

drunk and want to fight.

he spent an hour

on one episode explaining

what all the keys

hooked to his belt are for.

some days

he's on the fire escape,

or the roof

chasing pigeons off, or

wrapping duct

tape around a pipe.

sometimes his wife

joins in,

asking him to turn that

damn thing

off.

next week he's doing

a compilation,

a best of video of the building

he watches

over.

i can hardly wait.

it's not your turn

the sirens

are going off all night.

the screaming

trucks

and cars

racing by with their

party lights on.

hoses and ladders,

Dalmatian dogs

barking,

squad

cars.

something is going on

somewhere

close by.

but it's not your turn

apparently.

so back to sleep,

good night.

shopping on Madison Avenue

i often

tell people when

the conversation awkwardly

lags as we walk

along the path

and it's cold out.

i say,

by the way,

do you know

where i bought these gloves,

these gloves

that i'm wearing

right now?

i hold my hands up

to show

them the brown leather gloves.

spreading my

fingers for effect.

they look at me in a strange

way,

the way one

looks at crazy people on

the subway.

no, they say.

but do tell.

where did you get those

nice leather gloves?

i tell them

Madison Avenue in New York City,

a few years ago.

a little shop along the way,

next to a deli,

but it's not

there anymore.

a stranger looking into my window

i don't know who he is,

but i see

a man,

standing across the street

staring into

my house.

i lower the blinds

and peek

out.

he's wearing a hat,

a grey flannel suit.

he's around fifty

years

old, i suppose.

there's a briefcase 

in his left hand,

and what looks like

a subpoena in his right.

he's wearing sunglasses.

i want to go out and find

out who he is,

ask him what he's

doing here,

and why he's standing

across the street

staring into my window.

but i'm not wearing

any shoes,

or pants,

so that ends that.

seven minutes at lovers lane

the first

time we made love was in

the back

seat of a car,

a Dodge Dart Swinger

of all things,

with plastic

vinyl seats

and windows that would

never quite

roll down.

we parked on a curve

of Owens Road,

not far

from the Dairy Queen

in town.

it was summer, so

she was

wearing

shorts. i remember

her long

tanned legs clearly,

but forget the rest

of the story.

the next seven minutes

are all a blur now.

return to sender

women in general

are good at returning

things.

they never

take the tags

off until

the last moment.

they save

the receipts,

they keep the bag

or the box,

the wrappings

that the item

came in.

they know how print

a return

code and where

to go

if need be.

they have scissors and tape

at the ready,

stamps in their purse,

if necessary

they're prepared before

the package

even arrives,

to send it back.

time to go

your yawn

is a hundred words held back.

the way

you rub

your eyes and glance

at your wrist

watch.

i know it's late,

i know

you're tired.

no need to tell me that

it's time

to go. no excuses

are necessary.

let me get your coat

and hat.

to the moon Alice

they stuff

five

rich women into the top

of a rocket

ship

and send them

into the fringe of outer space.

but on the way,

two

of them

have to use the bathroom

and the other

one forgot

her phone

and makeup,

so they have to turn

back

and there's a delay.

mission control has to

yell at them

to be quiet

for five

seconds to inform them

which button to push

for this emergency

re-entry.

when Mary moved to Miami

when

Mary moved to Miami

in her

eighties,

to become queen of

the senior home

she moved into.

i figured that i'd never see

her again.

i was right.

but she did send me

a card

every year

for my birthday,

for Christmas

and for

no reason at all sometimes.

occasionally

she'd call.

and then

they stopped

coming.

so i knew, despite

not knowing,

i knew she was gone.

the first snowfall

it's just

snow falling. i've seen

it all

of my life.

the long soft

curves of drifts,

the sparkle

of white.

but that doesn't make it

less beautiful.

it's like when

you come into a room.

it's as if

i'm seeing you 

for the very first time.

straight A's in the fifth grade

when my

son was in elementary school

he showed

me his test paper

with an A plus on it.

i tried to read it,

but every other word

was misspelled,

the handwriting

looked like

chicken scratch.

most of what he had written

was copied

from somewhere.

i asked him

how he got an A with

such crap.

and he told me they don't

care about

spelling, or handwriting,

plagiarism,

or things like that anymore.

he got straight A's

that year.

i no longer had to help

him study.

the open door policy

my wife

leaves the door open

overnight.

the next morning there are people

all over the house.

eating,

sleeping,

watching tv.

she's serving them food,

and drinks.

putting clothes

on their backs.

handing them money.

i ask her who are these people

that trespass?

she tells me to lighten

up.

they've traveled a thousand

miles to be here,

leaving their own

homes,

risking robbery and death.

perhaps you

should get a second job

or a third

to help them out.

they never age

i've seen

the movie a million times,

at least.

black and white.

late night.

the actors long gone

but still young and beautiful.

i know the lines.

i remember

the plot,

the twist at the end,

but that's fine.

it's a nice place

to go

from time after time,

rarely

do i turn it off.

the handshake

no one

wants to shake

the clammy

hand,

the fish shake,

the flounder wiggling

at the end

of someone's arm.

we want

a firm grip.

whether man or woman.

we want to know

that you're present,

that you're strong.

a basket of yarn at her feet

it was

an enormous straw

basket

full of colored

balls of yarn,

pointed

metal sticks

and patterns folded

over,

that she sat with

in her chair.

i can still

hear the clicks,

like

a broken clock,

but faster

as with quick fingers

and wrists,

she left this world

for another,

to furiously

knit.

if it taste good, it can't be bad, can it?

the supermarket

tells

you all you need to know about

commercialism.

this place

we live in,

shop in,

die in.

bright lights and soft

music piped

in overhead.

shiny apples

stacked like pyramids.

there's a smile on everything

but the store clerk.

with brightly

colored

packages to subtly lure

you in.

so much

we don't know

and don't want to know

about what

we're eating.

when exactly did that cow

die?

what country

sent those tomatoes

green on the vine?

if it taste good, it can't be

bad,

can it?

bumper stickers

we like to

advertise our feelings.

with

placards

in the yard, t-shirts

printed

with who we love

or despise.

displaying the accomplishments

of our children,

or who we voted

for by

bumper stickers

on our cars.

it's easier that way

than talking

about it.

though thankful

for the garage.

the line in the dirt

we're all

nice

and compliant, easy

to get along with

until

we break,

and then at last

the hidden

true self

is revealed.

some break easy,

some break

hard

needing time to be

pushed just

once more

across that drawn

line.

burning bridges

i look

back at all the bridges

burning

behind me.

the blazing

fires that

will keep me from

ever going

back in a moment

of sentimental

weakness.

burn on.

please, go on with your story

i'm not ignoring you.

i'm just studying

the sole  

of my boot.

the heel

is loose

and the stitching is frayed.

plus, i seemed to have

stepped into

a wad of something,

part pink, part grey,

but go on. please,

go on with your story.

i'm listening,

really, i am.

i could listen to you talk

all day.

her barn full of hay

our grandmother

in North Reading,

would

send us across the road

to steal

ears of corn for dinner.

we'd cross

the vacant stretch of dirt

and gravel

with our baskets and snatch

the ears

right off the stalks

which towered over us,

then scurry back,

gleeful at our theft.

she said she knew the

farmer and his wife

which made

everything okay. 

years later we found out

that she was sleeping

with farmer Joe,

which explained everything.

the cherry pie on the table

half gone,

her barn full of hay

and the jug of milk

now cold.

it was our first encounter

with bartering for goods.

we seldom run away

who hasn't

wanted to run away at some point

in their life,

whether

at the age of ten

or sixty,

we wonder what lies

over there,

way over there,

on the other side.

away

from this,

whatever this might mean.

but seldom do we pack

that bag

and go.

change is hard,

and for the most part we're

cowards.

we stick with what we

know.

the accident

it was

odd to see something

so large

lying

on the street, the horse

turned

over

with the wagon, struck

by a car

at a high speed.

and the man beside

the horse

crying into his hat,

weeping as if

she was a loved one,

a spouse

a child, a friend.

and the policeman with

his revolver,

the single shot

of the gun, bringing

the street

drama to an end.

and yet looking out the window

of my father's

car, i remember

the fruit upended onto the street,

strangely ignored

by everyone,

the apples and pears,

the bananas, broken melons,

all set free.

guilt free littering

as i unwrap

the paper and foil 

from the stick of gum,

a gust

of wind

takes it out of my hand

and sets

it sailing far

down the road.

when i was

younger

i might have chased it.

being the good

person

that i am.

but i guess i've changed

from who i was

back then.

the good light

it's a good

flashlight. an old lamp

kept

on the top shelf of the hall

closet

along with

hats and gloves, winter

boots

and salt for the steps

off the porch

when ice arrives.

i flick

the switch and the beam

shoots across

the room,

making light where

there was none

with the power down.

good

bones, good steel,

strong

batteries.

like you, my dear.

bright when darkness

tries to overcome.

the cracking of eggshells underfoot

you have

people in your life,

friends,

relatives,

etc.

that you have to be careful

with

so as not to trigger them.

you are perpetually

walking on

eggshells,

hoping not to upset

or hurt

their feelings.

God forbid

you talk about politics

or religion,

things of that nature.

it makes for a long day

and a non

interesting

conversation

when it's always

about the weather

and what's for

dinner.

we differ

we decide

to begin knocking things

off on our

bucket list.

things to do

before we die.

her list is different than mine.

she wants

to visit the Sphinx

in Egypt,

jump out of an airplane,

and go

deep sea diving.

i show her my list.

item number one,

is to buy a double scoop

of ice cream,

rocky road

and mint chip

on a sugar cone.

the human globe

my cousin big Bertha,

decides to get her entire

head

covered with tattoos,

down to her neck,

and nether regions.

torso, front and back,

arms and legs.

it's a map of the world

in great detail.

with latitude and longitude

lines going north and south,

east and west.

she's very helpful now

when we travel.

if lost,

there's no need to google anywhere

with her around.

com si com sa

it's either the end of the world,

or the beginning

of a golden age,

it all depends on who

you listen to on tv.

what channel you turn to,

what newspaper you read.

is there an in-between?

a fat middle of everything

is pretty much okay?

com si com sa.

chicken again, honey?

i put

a chicken in the oven,

a fat roaster

from Kroger's,

then wipe

my hands on my

new apron,

which i bought online from

Martha Stewart's

merch store.

i start

dicing carrots

and potatoes, tossing

about a Ceasar salad,

using my

own recipe for the dressing,

not handed down.

my wife yells at

me from

her easy chair.

she lowers the tv,

and her phone,

taking sips of wine.

we're not having chicken

again,

are we dear?

perpetual Halloween

why

argue, why fight?

if you

want to call yourself a man,

or a woman

or something

in between, or none of the above,

have at it.

it's your privilege

your right.

wear a wig,

a dress, put on a helmet,

grow muscles

and fight,

grow a beard or alter

your body

parts, 

slice and dice away

who you used to be. 

who cares?

go dancing

with your new

found self.

it's all okay, it's alright.

let's play

Halloween all year round,

all day,

and all night.

we used to like you

we used

to like you. 

for years we've read

what you wrote

and laughed,

we used

to think you were smart

and clever,

a good person.

but after

what you wrote last

week,

we'll our love for you

has passed.

still happy, regardless

he liked

to fish, the old man.

he liked to get up early and dig

for worms

in his back

yard

then put them in a paper cup

to take

down to the river,

where he'd

stand in the morning sunlight

and wait

for the first

bite on his cast

line and hook.

sometimes the fish

would

come home with him,

still alive

in a white

pail,

and other times it was

just him.

still happy,

regardless.

man peeing outside of the 7-11

there

was a man, a grown

man

with a Christmas beard

and a long coat on,

peeing

beside the trash can

in front of the 7-11.

we looked

at each other as we

sat in the car,

and asked

how badly

did we really

want a hot dog and a big

gulp,

and another lottery

ticket?

don't go into the basement, she said

she wouldn't

let

me see her basement.

what was

down there?

bodies?

feral cats,

wild dogs?

mice and spiders?

what was she hiding?

money,

love letters, her diary,

a life

when

she broke the law?

a portrait of her

with nothing on?

she kept

the door locked.

the dead bolt slid tight

into the slot.

sometimes

i'd put my ear

to the door

and listen. but nothing.

nothing but the smell

of wet laundry

and the ticking

of a clock.

the crying towel

some actors,

can

cry on a dime,

make

tears come out of their

weepy

eyes

with a little twist

of their

tongue and mind.

she was like that.

which was why

i kept

a crying towel

nearby.

when the boys came home

when the neighborhood

boys came back from

the war.

they

were different.

shorn of hair,

thin

but muscled, a look

of joy

and forlorn

on their aged faces.

relieved

to be home again but

still in creased

uniforms.

before

they left

we sat on the porch

and talked

about girls

and sports, we flew

kites

in green fields,

and drank

beer on the bleachers

behind the school.

now they say little,

staring off into a place

you can't see,

or want to.

no I.D. to vote?

we need an I.D.

to apply for welfare, Medicaid,

Social Security,

to make a claim for unemployment

benefits.

we need an I.D.

to get a job,

to apply for a passport,

or to drive

a car, or rent a car,

to sail a boat,

or to board an airplane.

we need an

I.D. to buy a gun,

to buy a bottle of whiskey

or wine,

or to get married,

or to adopt a pet,

or a child.

to get into Costco

or to check a book out of the library.

we need an I.D. to 

rent a hotel room,

to acquire a fishing license,

to get health insurance,

to buy a cellphone,

to visit a casino,

to pick up prescription drugs

at the drug store.

you need an I.D. to donate blood,

or to purchase

nail polish.

but you don't need an I.D.

to vote,

the most

important thing a person

can do

in a democracy?

let's take a breather

we need

more humor, more fun,

more

forgiveness

and

empathy.

kindness.

it would be nice

if we

all got along,

regardless of political

affiliations,

race

creed or color.

live and let live.

make love

not war.

no violence.

let's take a break

from all the wars,

personal

and far away.

let's take a breather

and pray.

a black bird against the blue ceiling

i was

watching Bill and Nancy

dance

while i drank

my beer

and nibbled on peanuts

at the Knights

of Columbus Hall.

it was back

when you could smoke

anywhere,

and everyone did.

young and old,

men and women.

i finished the peanuts

then

the waitress brought me

a club sandwich.

i ate it,

putting mayonnaise

on my lips

and on my jacket.

Bill and Nancy were still

dancing,

third song in a row.

i wished i could dance

like that.

after i finished my sandwich,

i ordered

another beer,

then lit up

a cigarette,

and blew smoke rings

up into the blue ceiling,

where a single

black bird

was flying around.

Lucinda and fried beef

is everything

we consume made in either

China

or Mexico?

i ask my wife,

Lucinda.

yes, she says,

showing me

the little tattoo

on the nape of her neck

which says

made in Tijuana.

then we go

out to dinner,

to Hunan West, for 

Peking

fried beef

and broccoli.

back then there was no Burlington coat factory

from my

calculations, the weather in 

the Garden of Eden

must have been pretty nice.

maybe around 68 degrees,

slightly

overcast.

they had no clothes, so in

order to survive,

things had to be just right,

with a limited

chance of sunburn

or frostbite.

it was like San Diego,

sort of

in the spring,

back in the sixties,

during the Summer of Love,

but then it all changed

with that damn

apple.

now we're buckling up

galoshes

and wearing hats,

putting on an extra layer

of clothes

because it's freezing

with three feet of snow

on the ground.

we're at the beach

lathering on sunscreen

in our bikinis and speedos.

as humans we adjust

as humans

we are very flexible.

we get fat,

we adjust.

we open up the belt a little,

going to the next

notch.

we get old,

we move slower

grabbing the rail.

we get fired,

we get another job,

telling the old boss

to go to hell.

we get

married

which makes us compromise

on everything

from food

to shelter,

and

if we have to,

we sleep in the other room.

when we get

divorced,

we stretch out and

put some music

on. we dance

in our underwear.

we adjust, that's what

humans do.

the prisoner swap

it's interesting

the swaps

we make

with foreign countries

for prisoners.

we give them

back

the bomb maker, 

the arms dealer,

the terrorist

and

the murderer,

a gang leader,

and they give us back

a ballerina, three nuns

and a Mormon.

even Steven

sort of.

the bear in winter

like a bear

in winter, my father

would

retreat

to his big chair in the corner

and smoke

a cigar

in the dark.

he was in a mood.

a silent mood

angry about things 

to which we had

no clue.

my mother would whisper

to us,

telling us to

stay

clear.

give him a few days,

he'll get over it.

here,

take him this bean

soup i made

and this beer.

the Go Go dancer

she used

to do a dance for me

on Friday

nights.

like you'd see the go go

girls dancing

on Shindig.

sometimes she'd be up

on a chair,

wearing her

tool belt and little else.

throwing

herself around

as if demon possessed,

her hair flying

about,

arms in the air.

i'd ask her if she wanted

me to put

some music on,

to which she'd say,

no, i'm good.

last night she came over

with a bottle

of Pepto Bismol,

and i had to help her

up the stairs.

a cold cold shower

i take

my morning cold shower.

freezing

cold

with the pipes still

hanging

onto winter,

despite April ninth.

i stand

in it,

until my skin is numb

and i'm awake.

tingling

all over.

it's always interesting

to start

the day

with a little pain,

it's downhill from there.

all gravy.

in Mexico for six nights

we were in

Mexico

drinking tequila for

five

days, six nights.

sick and sunburned.

that's what i remember.

that and

the rain.

the busy hotel.

the tourists

in hats,

in white. we'd

go home,

alive, still together,

but nothing was ever

the same

again after that,

the world

wasn't right.

she's leaving again for the weekend

who doesn't

like

a bit of juicy gossip.

though

sinful,

it's delightful to have

an earful

of what

Mrs. Smith,

the librarian, is up to

when

she goes away

for the weekend

wearing her wide

white hat,

and carrying her parasol.

tip toeing

out in the dead of night,

with perfume

on and red lipstick

heavy on her lips,

which she never wears

around us.

i believe the mouse

does roar

at times.

small talk

he had

more degrees than 

a thermometer

hanging on the walls.

he'd studied

everything from

medicine,

to theology, to law,

and yet,

when you talked to him

about anything,

making small

talk,

your eyes grew heavy

and you began

to yawn.

everyday a win

it's not

proper anymore to want

what

used to be.

the wife at home raising

the children,

the man

at work,

the simple life, traditional

and old,

church

and school.

family and friends.

a yard to mow,

a dog.

the good life, a white

fence

keeping it all in.

everyday a win.

the lucky few

a splinter,

a thumbtack,

a cuticle bitten

raw,

small pains they are,

perhaps

portents of things to come,

or maybe not.

some go through

life

with a minimum of

scars.

i see no answers here

are the answers

really

blowing in the wind?

i think to myself

as i watch

hats flying off,

and shopping carts rolling

down the parking lot,

the ears of dogs

flapping.

dresses are being held

down because

of the wind.

small children are tumbling

away as their

kites are ripped from

their hands,

trash cans

are blowing over,

the trees are bending,

fast clouds are flying by.

i see no answers here, Bob.

is there anything in there i can eat?

i need

to label the food in the fridge.

one day,

two days,

you have an hour left

before

mold sets in.

what is that in foil?

can ketchup

go bad?

will Styrofoam

keep

it fresh?

i still have a box of baking

soda

in there that

the ex-wife put in.

has it helped?

i don't know, but

why is the lettuce

brown

when i just bought it an

hour ago?

do i have to smell test

everything?

not guilty clothing attire

i can't

find my shoehorn.

so that

makes wearing these shoes

impossible

today.

it's not a good start.

i lay out

some shirts and pants,

so many

choices,

so much clothing i never

wear anymore.

and yet

can't throw away.

the mirror in

the corner

is waiting for me.

i can't be late for another

court date

and i don't want to wear

something

that will make me

look guilty.

the paid protesters

my neighbor

with blue hair and a nose

ring,

which has rusted because 

of all the crying,

is leaving her house early

this morning

with her

bullhorn

and cowbell.

another protest today?

yes, she says,

we must band together to

stop

fascism.

plus the organizers

are getting

paid.

so i'm an organizer now.

i help bus

the protesters in

and give

them factory made signs.

i tell them what

to chant but it's so hard to find

words that rhyme

with fascism.

so what exactly is fascism?

oh you know

having a dictator

bossing people

around.

taking away their rights

and stuff.

i haven't looked it up exactly.

so what rights?

oh you know. reproductive

rights.

but aren't you 60 years old?

didn't mother nature take that

right away from you?

what other rights?

look, i have to go in a minute

after i run back

into the house to get my meds.

i can't protest

without my meds.

the trade war with China

what about

these tariffs, i ask my

96

year old father as he works

a Qu-tip into his ear.

what?

traffic?

i don't drive anymore

sonny boy.

i don't give a damn about

traffic.

no, no.

tariffs.

were in a trade war with China.

China?

they're increasing their

tariffs on us,

and we're retaliating.

the only thing

i like about China

is their General Tao Chicken,

he says,

and their

spring rolls.

i used to tell your mother

i was going to take

a slow

boat to China,

when she used to nag me.

i'm not worried about China.

they have those

little slave

kids working around the clock

making stuff

for us, and cheap too.

i think we still have a set of China

in the hutch, but you

can't even put it in the dishwasher.

China. pfffft.

some things get left behind

my

friend Gina,

who likes to snoop,

is waiting for me when

i come

out of the shower.

she's holding

a bra in her hand,

a black

sheer thing

with a single snap

in the back.

she's shaking it

in the air

like a dead fish.

not wanting to get too close.

what's this? she says.

is there something

you want to tell me?

i found this

under the bed.

i look at the label,

ah yes.

that's Donna's.

from years ago.

see all the dust on it?

why don't you try it on,

see if it fits.

the walking advertisement

while

standing on the subway

train

seeing my

reflection

in the window glass,

i realize that i'm a billboard

of advertisements.

the logo

on my hat,

my coat, my jeans.

even

my shirt and shoes

have tags.

and there on

my arm

is your name,

which at some point

i'll have removed

at last.

when people like you

you know

that people like you

when

they call or text and tell you

that the space

in the driveway

is open

for you.

they've moved their

car down the street,

and now

you don't have to worry

about where to park.

it's all yours,

they say.

we'll leave the light on

for you.

and not to worry,

the dog won't bite,

he just barks.

the great idea

it's nice

to have a good idea.

something

that seemingly pops into

your head

one

morning while taking a shower,

or when

scrambling eggs.

you think,

why haven't i thought of this

before.

and then

the day gets in the way.

and whatever brilliant

plan you had

seems not so great after all

when

sit down in the easy chair,

and night falls.

politics and friends

the friends

you

lose

won't return, at least

not

like before.

but in

a different form.

something has changed.

that old

water

under the bridge thing

has eroded

the love, 

it's

taken its toll.

surviving a nuclear winter

if it came

down to it, i could

bake

bread

and live on that.

i have

water

and salt.

flour.

packets of yeast.

a variety of condiments,

ketchup

mustard,

Paul Newman's salad

dressings

on the refrigerator door.

i could

survive

maybe a week or

two of the nuclear winter,

but that's about it.

i don't know what you're thinking

you're impossible

to read,

she tells me.

i never know

what you're thinking,

if you're being

serious

or joking around.

i know, i know. i tell her,

i'm truly sorry.

i am.

i don't do it on purpose.

but i can't

help myself.

i've always had a fear,

like Oscar Wilde,

of not being misunderstood.

assisting shoppers

there's a young man

standing in front of the meat section

at the grocery

store.

picking up one

steak and setting down another.

he's wearing

an orange vest

and big boots

caked with mud.

his face is tired.

his white road helmet

is slipping

off his head. the light

is still on.

i guess he's trying to decide

on dinner.

he sees me looking

over his shoulder and says,

sorry, am i in your way?

no, i tell him, no rush,

then point out to him

that the rib eyes are a better

cut of meat,

more flavor.

look for marbling.

i drag my finger across

the package

along the white fat imbedded

in the meat.

he puts back the top sirloin

and nods.

okay, okay. he says.

i hand him a thick pack

of three rib eyes on sale.

never get the thin

kind, i tell him,

tapping my finger on the plastic

wrapping,

especially if you're grilling

they'll cook too fast

and be overdone and tough.

and don't be scared

of salt,

dry the meat off and salt it down.

good, he says good.

great advice.

thank you.

do you mind if you walk

over to the produce

section with me?

i need to pick out some potatoes too.

sure, sure.

let's go.

have you thought about dessert

yet?

i love who you pretend to be

i like the person

you are pretending to be.

so sweet,

so kind, so gentle.

honest and loyal

to a fault.

i've fallen

in love with this image,

the false self

you present to the world.

honed

from childhood until today.

please don't ever

change.

don't take your mask off.

it's this fake you,

that i've fallen in love with,

the one i want to stay.

her yellow dress

i see

your picture in the paper.

it's a familiar

face.

with beauty,

only the young can

possess.

is it true

that you're really gone?

it was

just yesterday

i saw

you in school wearing

your yellow dress.

what was it i wanted to tell you?

what was it

that

i wanted to tell you, before

you closed

your eyes

and kissed me

goodnight.

what

did i have to tell you

before

we fell asleep in each

other's arms?

will i remember

tomorrow,

with a new sunrise,

a window

full of light?

time

like all good thieves,

it's slow

and quiet,

but steady, moving in

light or

dark.

carefully

putting into the black

bag

minutes

and hours,

days

and years.

then back out the window

it goes.

fearless,

onto the next aging soul.

the Rexall drugstore

it was a long

steel counter that curved

at both ends,

with

red vinyl capped stools

that spun

around.

my record

being ten.

but we ordered grilled

cheese

sandwiches

and cokes,

a paper tray full of French

fries.

from the woman behind

the counter,

a pen

in her hair.

lipstick and rouge,

the crease of her breasts,

white,

and begging

to be viewed.

we were kids.

in out of the rain, the fields

too wet,

a Saturday

with nothing to do.

we'd linger with comic

books

off the rack until

the manager,

a thin man

wearing a thin tie would

chase us out, back into

the rain.

it's sunny and warm, it's nice

my father's last

girlfriend calls me each

month

on the anniversary

of his death.

she's still working it out,

things done,

things said.

the pondering is endless.

she's in the deep end,

the mud

sucking off her shoes.

she can't move.

i try to keep it light,

but she insists

on crying at some point.

she tells me it's been

three months, four days,

and fourteen hours

since he left this life.

i ask her how the weather is,

hoping to change

the subject

to which she's grateful.

she tells me it's sunny

and warm. it's nice.

celebrity confessions

it's a book

about

her life, a very public life,

from a very

famous

family.

you know about the tragedies

and triumphs,

the heart

aches.

you've been a casual

observer

from afar.

reading and hearing

snippets

gossip

in press.

it's interesting and it's not.

we are all

so self-absorbed.

wringing our hands, trying

hard

to come out

the other side.

does another book help,

another speech

or talk?

we want them to be happy,

they seem to deserve it,

more than us.

it feels that way sometimes

it feels

as if it's nearly everyone

has

lost their mind,

but in reality,

it's just a few.

i stick with that thought,

and believe

it,

though

deep down inside,

i doubt it's true.

tell me nothing is wrong

there is

beauty in this stillness.

this

sweet quiet

of Sunday,

alone

in the yard, a book half read.

no noise

but the birds,

a dog barking

down the road.

the laughter

of children

from the playground.

what could possibly

be wrong

with this world?

batons in the air

she shows

me

her pom pom routine

from

1975.

putting on her white

boots

her spangled

skirt

and blouse,

her tall hat with a gold

medallion

attached.

everything still fits

like a glove.

we put on some marching

music.

she spins her rusted baton,

tossing it in the air.

and around

the room she goes.

having not

lost a step.

yesterday is a blink away.

we're forever young,

never old.

a man at the gate

we called

it a starter home.

the little

townhouse

on the edge of town,

by the railroad

tracks,

the power lines

and grids.

a school was nearby,

a Chinese

restaurant

and a Wal-Mart.

we were there for thirty

years

until the children

were on their own.

but now

we've downsized.

the steps

getting harder

to climb.

we're in a condo with a view

of the mall,

and the interstate.

we can see and hear

the airplanes

all night

and all day,

but there's a pool,

and an exercise room,

a man

at the gate.

getting paid to protest

it's a great

new

part time job,  put on a mask

grab

and sign

and chant

and scream at the top of your lungs

for a few

hours,

then go back home

to your television fire.

democracy

at its finest.

even ideas

can be bought at the right

price.

so much

hatred

and

violence from

the empathetic

and kind left side.

what time is it?

i recognize

that extended sigh,

that

rubbing of eyes,

that exaggerated yawn.

i know it all too well.

it's my hint too,

for moving on.

it's like magic

i know

so little about so much.

it's obvious

to many

when they hear me speak

about

things

i shouldn't

breathe a word to.

take trees for instance,

i might

recognize

a birch or oak, or willow,

but for the most

part

i have no clue.

i'm lost.

i barely

understand

that in the autumn

leaves

turn color and fall,

while in the spring,

more arrive,

magically,

all with new buds.

nothing to barter with

somehow,

in the wind of life,

i lost my recipe for chocolate

chip

cookies with nuts.

handwritten

by an ex-wife.

how do i possibly get a new

copy

without stirring

the emotional pot?

should i wing it,

or barter?

but what do i have

that she could

possibly

want?

apparently nothing, which

is why

it never worked out.

grandma Joan of arc

i wait

at the gate for my grandmother

to be

released

from jail.

i told her not to scratch

cars

and set fires,

but no, she wouldn't listen.

she says

she'll be back out there

again

come Saturday

with her signs

her chants and synchronized

yells.

she'll be putting on her orthopedic

shoes

and back brace,

her tin foil hat.

we did this back in the 60's,

she says

with fire in her eyes,

and we're doing

it again.

she's even baking brownies

this time

to feed her

friends and comrades

in the field.

keeping on eye on things

my neighbor

has a dozen

ring cameras set up around

his house.

motion

and light detectors.

i saw him the other day

with heavy

bags under his eyes,

exhausted

because every time

a bird

or squirrel

or spider spins a web

near his yard

he's alerted and climbs

out of bed

to observe his monitors.

on windy nights,

he doesn't even try

to go sleep,

he just sits and stares

at his phone

waiting

for the sun to rise.

too much cake and candy

there's a conflict

of heart

and mind,

body and soul. what

tastes

so good

what feels good,

is not always good for

you.

too much

of a good thing,

will

trap you into believing

that's all

you need to find

joy and happiness.

the rest of the world

means less

with too much

cake and candy,

sex.

the weekend crazies

why

are so many of the weekend

warrior

protesters

so overweight

and goofy looking?

who are these people?

circus people

covered in colorful clothes

and wigs.

masked

and angry,

with bulging eyes.

rebels without a cause,

or one

they can put their finger

on.

are they off their meds?

why are so many boys

dressed up

as girls.

what's with the cow bells

and drums,

the chanting

and screams.

have they nothing better

to do

with their lives?

no loved

ones at home, no hobbies,

no golf

or fishing,

no working on their

homes.

no books to read,

no bikes to ride.

no church or synagogue?

no taking a stroll, or having

a picnic.

what good is all this madness?

to what end?

sanity has died.

wishing on a star

we used

to lie

out on the summer grass

and count

stars,

the next door

girl

and i.

but we didn't care about

stars,

or meteors

flashing by, the moon

meant

nothing,

we were just delaying

the wish

of the first kiss,

and hand

holding moment,

that seemed

so near,

and yet so far.

making the F word just another word

the f word

is very popular right now.

politicians

use it,

children,

teachers, mothers and fathers.

lawyers

and chefs.

the internet

is chock full of the word

without

little or no effort

to find it.

scientists, yoga masters,

poets

and writers.

the doctor when staring

at an x-ray

exclaiming,

what the F is that?

we're living in an F bomb

world.

and it's lost

its effect.

a continental breakfast and free Wi-Fi

tired

with driving all night

in the rain,

i suggest that the next motel

we see,

we stop

and spend the night.

what about

this one

she says, free Wi-Fi,

a continental

breakfast

in the morning, 

the vacancy light is green.

the pillows

are soft,

and the mattress comfy

and clean.

it's very private and quiet

with parking

in the rear.

slamming on the brakes,

i look at her and ask

how she

would know this.

her strawberry patch

she told

me

she was going to grow

strawberries

in her

back yard,

and sell them on the corner.

i'm not joking

she said.

you'll see.

you'll see.

but next spring she was gone,

a tiny

bump found.

and now

when i walk by

her house,

i see the strawberries

are out

there

along fence, growing

wildly,

going strong.

the new house cleaner

my new

housekeeper has at

last arrived.

she says

she's from Paris, France,

but i suspect

it's Paris, Texas.

the lipstick

and perfume

is refreshing though

after the likes

of Wanda

and her minions.

but she doesn't have a lick

of an accent.

and the black stockings

and heels

don't fool me

one bit

with her little duster

in hand.

she says, what's that?

when i show

her the washing

machine.

i tell her where

the linen closet is and

the cleaning supplies

under the kitchen

sink, then ask her 

who that enormous

man is waiting out in the van

she came in.

he's my friend, not to worry.

but can you

pay me before i begin?

the magical world

is it real

money, or imaginary dollars.

stacked

up

in the magical world

of high

and low

finance.

will it be gone soon,

slip sliding

away,

like a fat fish in my

hands,

as the boat rocks.

will i

be eating tomato

soup

in a tent beneath 

the over ramp,

wringing out my wet

pants

and socks.

how it usually goes

they're back.

i hear

the morning rustle of their wings

and

birds

barking.

feathering the nest

again,

in the small

corner of the soffit,

into a crease

of wood.

eggs will

be laid soon

i suppose.

it seems that's how it

usually goes.

boy or girl, easy to find out

no need

for genetic testing,

or

pulling down one's drawers

or lifting

up a dress

to determine, boy or girl

when trying

out for school

sports teams.

no.

just ask them

to tell you what happened

yesterday

in school.

the boy will talk for five

minutes

summing it all up

with clarity

and in an efficient manner,

while the girl will go on

and on

for an hour, or longer,

adding in a bevy of useless

and unrelated

information, drifting off

into a mind numbing

word salad.

she may never

get to an end and finally

ask,

so what was the question?

that is not my baby

there's a knock

at the door.

i look through the peephole

to see

who it is.

Mormons?

girl scouts selling cookies?

my neighbor

wanting to borrow

a cup

of cold pressed olive

oil?

someone serving

me a subpoena again?

what is it this time?

it looks like a young woman

out there

she's holding a small child

in her arms,

this can't be good.

quickly i drop to the floor

and crawl

around turning off

the tv

and all the lights, but

she keeps knocking.

i know you're in there,

she says.

just open the door, it's

not your baby.

don't worry.

i wipe the sweat off my

brow

and open the door.

what?

how can i help you?

i'm new in the neighborhood

and we're starting

a morning playgroup

with all the other mothers,

and we were wondering if

any children live

here.

we'd love to have them join us.

i open

the door to show her my

living room.

beer cans everywhere,

pizza boxes,

fishing equipment

and hunting rifles.

there's a poster of Farah

Faucet in a red

bathing suit

on the far wall.

what do you think? i ask her.

oh my,

she says. sorry to bother you.

no more TikTok

i ask

my ninety-five year old father

if he's concerned

about the country

losing Tik-Tok.

what?

he says, staring at his wrist

watch.

my watch is fine.

he puts it up to my ear.

do you hear

that, tick tock, tick tock.

look over

there on the wall,

in five minutes the rooster

will come out

and go cock a doodle doo.

what do i care

about tick tock, time goes

on and on and on.

you can't stop it.

no, i tell him. not that tick tock.

TikTok.

it's in your phone.

what will people do when

they're in the waiting

room at the doctor's office,

or on a bus

or train, sitting there

for an hour.

how will people enjoy their

morning coffee without

scrolling

their phone and viewing

TikTok videos?

monkeys playing the piano,

grown

men and women

dressed up

like cats.

people falling down flights

of stairs,

or car crashes.

how will they live without

viewing all that?

i don't know, he says.

maybe they can read a book,

or a magazine,

or talk to each other.

maybe they can shut their

eyes and pray

or meditate.

pfffft, TikTok, who needs it.

my watch is fine,

thank you.

it's a Timex, you never have

to wind it up.

my musical talent

i have

no musical talent whatsoever,

no inkling

of chord

changes,

of piano keys, or pedals.

guitar strings.

bass or lead

means nothing to me.

the banjo is impossible,

as is the harmonica.

although for a certain

period of time

while driving around in

my friends 68

Chevrolet,

with a beer can between

my knees,

i could pound out

on the dashboard

the drum solo on

In-a-gadda-da-vida

by Iron Butterfly.

the art of taking selfies

it's getting

harder

and harder to take a good selfie

to post

online,

to show the world

how young

and handsome i still am,

despite

the weight gain

and bald head.

it's tough

finding the right light,

the right turn

of the head,

do i smile, do i look

straight ahead,

do i toss my head back

in a laugh?

will sunglasses and a hat

help?

how do i show the world

how wonderful

i still am?

maybe if i have the ocean

behind me,

or a plate

of food in front of me,

or a dog

in my lap,

it will distract them

from whom i really am.

waving down the hot dog man at the ballgame

there's always

someone

pointing out to you what's

in a hot dog,

as you stuff

one into your

mouth,

dripping with relish

and mustard.

do you know what's

in there,

they ask?

they basically sweep

the butcher shop floors

of meat scraps

and form

them into shiny tubes

of pig skins.

i heard once that if you

feed them

to children that they will

get leukemia.

true story.

i keep eating, then wave

down

the hot dog man

for another.

do you want one?

my treat.

ok, but just one please.

in a heated bun.

going off the deep end with Jimmy

and what

exactly are your sources

i ask,

my friend

Jimmy,

the conspiracy theorist.

who exactly told

you that

the world

would end in five years

give or take

a few months,

if we don't stop carbon

emissions

and find a place

to put all the lithium

batteries.

some dude, i don't know,

he says.

he has a podcast.

he makes

artisan bread too.

farm raised children

they

were farmed raised

children,

penned into

small

lots at the daycare

center,

fed together,

bound

by ropes as they

walked

the street

by their teacher

masters.

unlike

fish or meat,

it was food coloring

and chemicals

of a different

sort

added to their

malleable brains.

at five pm,

into the arms

of tired parents,

they'd be released,

somehow

not the same.

Mexican jumping beans

on

the back of comic

books,

there were ads

for things we could buy.

gum that would make

your tongue turn

black,

buzzers to shock

a hand

when shook,

b b guns,

cap guns,

ant farms, Mexican jumping

beans,

and magnifying glasses.

all easily

purchased with a coupon

and allowance

money

if you cut the grass,

through the U.S. mail.

weapons

of minor destruction.

we waited

daily,

impatiently, with elbows

on the window

sill.

what point would there be in that

like most

families in the sixties,

we had

a fishbowl.

a clear simple glass

bowl

with blue gravel

on the bottom,

and some

plastic shrubbery

for the

goldfish

to swim around

or through,

maybe a lighthouse

made of plastic,

too.

each day we'd come

home from

school

and drop pebbles of food

onto the water,

after scooping

out the dead fish,

never named of course,

what point would

there be in that,

a routine

we grew used to.