fine dining

there's one

waiter

assigned to water.

a soldier at attention,

at the ready.

he's over there next to the post

with a giant

pitcher

of water.

i pretend to take a sip,

to make him

come over

to top my glass off.

but there's

disappointment

in his eyes

when he sees that another

pour

won't fit. for more fun

i drop my salad fork

on the floor,

which

makes them

all come running

with a clean one.

agent agent agent

have i dialed the right number?

i hope so.

i've gone through

all the prompts,

answering digitally

all of their questions.

i mute

the music, a horrible

wordless

jumble of noise

you could never dance,

or even tap

your fingers to.

i have all day to sit here

and wait for an agent

to answer the call,

or to transfer me again,

but so do they, at least

until five o'clock.

hunting season

the hunters

are in the woods wearing

orange vests.

i smell whiskey

on their breath.

they have

guns and cross bows,

armed to the teeth

to eliminate

those pesky

deer and rabid raccoons.

coyote

and fox.

it's nearly dark

as i speed forward on

my bike,

ducking and weaving,

hoping

for the best.

racing down broadway

jokingly,

i ask the cab driver

eating a kabob

how many

people has he run over

today,

as we race at sixty

miles

an hour down 

Broadway.

he uses the wipers

to smear away

a few bugs.

honks his horn 

at jaywalkers, lingering

in the box,

staring into

their phones.

he looks into the rear

view mirror

and laughs.

he adjusts his turban.

oh, he says, not many.

not many.

a few tourists maybe.

some pigeons,

some protestors.

not many, but it's early.

hiring a new assistant

if i had

an assistant, i'd tell her

what to

do all the time.

i'd have a list of things

for her to

accomplish

by the end of the day

or night.

she'd be at

the ready when the bell

dinged.

standing at attention

by my side.

if i had an itch,

for example,

i'd give her the exact

geographical

location on my back

that needed to be scratched

and tell

her not soft,

but hard, dig in.

i'm posting the ad tomorrow

on Linkedin.

the perpetually unhinged

yes, she tells me,

pulling on her blue hair,

and nose ring,

he may have cured

cancer,

saved

the children,

reduced crime

and made

everyone prosper,

brought peace

to the world

ending several

wars,

but we still hate him

she tells

me,

tying herself up

in knots

as she watches the tv.

do you even know what

he said

once in 1994?

the sweet spot

it's the sweet

spot

of a summer day.

the sun

nearly down behind

the trees,

the world at home

now,

at rest.

and you on the porch

swing

in the cool air

sipping lemonade.

glad for no reason,

with a hint

of a smile on your face.

the red light spinnng

occasionally

you'll

look out your window

and see

the spin of a red lamp

on the ambulance

that has arrived

quietly in the night

or morning. doors

open and heads

appear, shoulders

lean out cautiously to

see whose turn it is.

no need to change anymore

they want

bright colors and change.

they want

to jazz

things up,

throw caution to the wind

and become

new again

they don't want

the same old

thing.

it's boring,

mundane.

the young at heart

and young

believe

so, but

rarely the old and grey.

they like things

the way they are,

what they know

and love,

they want things to stay

the same.

turning the cameras off

i change

the locks less frequently now.

hardly

ever pull the shades,

or worry

about the back

gate.

i disconnected

the alarm

and the ring camera.

gave away

the watch dogs,

the pit bulls.

i'm in a no worry

zone,

in a happy place,

since i heard

you moved

to the South Pole.

finding common ground

you

read different books

than

i do,

you wear different clothes,

watch

different shows.

you talk

with a drawl,

while i'm a Boston boy.

you like vegetables,

while i prefer

red meat.

you lean left, i lean

right.

we have almost

nothing in

common.

expect for when we

turn out

the lights at night.

you don't know

as a child,

a young child,

you don't know poor,

you don't know

rich.

you just know what is.

happy to have

what's on

the plate

and the rest of it.

daily meditation

i have

the ability to meditate

and stare

at a candle

for about two minutes.

after that

i have to stop

because i feel like i'm

going crazy

sitting there

on the floor,

twisted like a pretzel

there's

work to do.

my mind refuses to empty.

i'll relax later when i stop

at Moe's after work

for a gin and tonic.

where to now?

we press

our faces to the darkened

windows.

cupping our

hands to see in.

we try the locked

doors,

the chairs are on the tables.

the lights are off.

pictures are

off the walls,

the silverware

and dishes are gone.

there's no on around,

no waiters,

no cooks. no Maitre d.

it's over for Aldo's.

our home away from home.

retail therapy

it's disturbing

to look

into the eyes of so many

in the crowd

down 5th Avenue,

most in an unruly

march

to somewhere, or nowhere.

some talking

to themselves.

the lost

and disheveled.

the worried

and ill.

but there's little sense

of guilt,

only comfort,

as the shopping bag,

swings

under our arm,

now filled.

what was is done

we gather

years upon us.

the weight

bends us closer

to earth.

but we adjust.

we find a hand to hold,

a railing

to grip

as we go down

the stairs.

we lay down so

much

to lessen the weight,

not forgetting, but

not carrying

it either. we surrender

to lightness.

what was

is done.

the emergency bar of chocolate

it's good to have

a secret emergency bar

of chocolate, tucked away

in the ice box

behind the frozen bags

of peas

and carrots.

a large wrapped chunk

to break

off a piece

or two

to get you through

the night,

or day,

whether the issue

revolves around love or work,

a broken nail or

a bad hair day.

it can have almonds

if you need that crunch.

dark Belgium chocolate

is preferred.

it's only money

it's only

money, that's what someone

says

who either has

none,

or a lot.

us in the middle,

rarely

say that.

we've worked too hard

to save it

for the pot.

our main goal

in life

is to not run out.

mount Vesuvius

i remember

my father sitting in his big

chair,

in the dark,

smelling of Canadian Club,

smoking a pipe.

stewing over something

we didn't understand,

giving my mother

the silent treatment

once more.

a weekly thing.

we stayed away, we

walked on tip toes,

not even saying goodnight

as we crept up

the stairs.

he was a volcano

growling, rumbling.

we wondered

when would he finally

erupt. would it

be tonight?

upon hearing bad news

this isn't

supposed to happen.

but now

what?

there are phone calls to make

to pass the word

along.

but can i sit on it a while.

take a bath

and ponder the news.

maybe have lunch

and read the paper.

can i pretend

that nothing has

happened,

that none of this is true?

how long can i wait,

before i change

the world of others?

i remember you

the cup

of moon was milk.

its sheen

turned

the grass

silver,

the leaves in the trees

danced

with white.

i moved closer

to you,

i pressed my lips

against

yours.

this moment wouldn't

be forgotten.

even

now after so many

years.

i can still taste

the life in you

and feel the drum

of my heart.

picking horses for beginners

it's

a horse race.

we have money

on the number

nine

horse.

Happy Days.

but he's

not doing well

in the mud

no matter how hard

the little jockey

whips him

and eggs him on

in Ecuadorian.

he comes in

last.

oh well. we say,

and tear up the losing

ticket.

what's a hundred dollars

these days.

let's try again

in the next race.

how about Bewitched?

i loved that show.

plus his colors are green,

my favorite.

tapping my shoe as i wait for you

we're an impatient lot

of people,

aren't we?

us with our instant

coffee,

our instant oats,

and minute rice,

our fast food lines,

the drive-thru,

and express lanes.

the EZ pass for a toll.

one hour

dry cleaning for all our clothes.

we need to be everywhere

and anywhere

in a New York

minute.

there's no time to lose.

without our phones to

stare into

while we wait for things

to happen

and for people to arrive,

what would we do?

at your earliest convenience

i want less now.

i need

less.

i can go to nearly

any

room in this house

and find

what i want.

there is nothing here

that isn't

mine

anymore.

i've set all of that on

the porch

for you to pick up

at your 

earliest convenience.

no need to knock,

or to apply

the horn.

just come,

just go.

tomorrow will be the same

the days

go by, but little changes.

you fill your days

with work,

with food and drink.

you long

for sleep.

for love, for reason.

you discuss life

with others,

you read books

hoping there's an answer

there.

you watch movies,

and listen to music.

and still,

little changes.

tomorrow will be the same,

permitting no

catastrophe occurs.

he looks different lying there

he doesn't look

like himself,

she says to me,

whispering,

nudging me

in the ribs

as we inch past

the coffin.

he looks different

somehow,

not the same from

what i remember.

it's because

he's dead,

i tell her

as i steer her out the room

and towards the long

table where

the food is.

he's been dead for

almost a week.

you should see me

on a

Sunday morning

after i've gone out drinking

the night before.

can i fix you a plate?

some shrimp maybe?

blowing out candles

she was a girly

girl.

she liked linen and lace,

candles

with fragrance,

vanilla

and clove, cinnamon,

lilac,

and lavender.

each room

had a scent

of flowers in the air,

but they made my nose

itch,

they made

me sneeze

and scratch, break out

into hives.

so i blew them out.

sadly this love, like

so many others,

didn't last.

this is who we are now

we wander

into Times Square, holding

our pepper sprays

in hand.

we want to take a look at the giant

statue

recently erected.

a twelve foot tall

obese woman

in a pant suit with her hands

on her hips,

about to hit her boyfriend

with a frying pan,

or steamed and demanding an

explanation

from the fast food clerk 

why there was

no ketchup

with her bag

of French fries.

it says a lot about where

we are as a country.

this is art for us.

this is who we are.

Europe must be jealous.

letting go of things

i get sentimental

over

the old car,

trading it in,

or the old couch

set out

for pick up

on the curb.

in my mind they were

almost friends

of some sort.

i spent so much

time with them.

through hell

and highwater.

it seems cruel

or unkind

to let them go on without

me.

handing them off

to strangers,

who never ask

or really care

what they know, or have

been through.

vampires on the road

we're starving, okay,

not

really starving, but hungry.

fortunately

her purse

is a treasure trove

of life saving

peanut butter crackers

and gumballs,

red licorice

and a tin of breath mints,

fireballs

and what not.

in five hours

we'll be out of Newark

and close

to home.

we'll make it, although our

tongues and lips,

like Dracula,

will be all red.

the comfort of broken

newer

is not better. give me the old

wood,

the dull,

the worn and tired

look.

take

me to the comfort

of

the broken big

chair,

the scratched record

spinning.

the hum of the icebox.

i want the used,

the bent,

yet kept.

the stuck window shade,

the rusted latch,

the loose

hinge on the gate.

the torn sweater

and loafers with a hole.

all of it tells me

i'm back home.

somewhere in between

they fall

somewhere in between

meaning

everything

and meaning nothing, these

dreams

we have. lost

in the fog of sleep.

the truth

is mixed with lies.

just like

when we're wide awake,

and alert,

saying things

with open

eyes.

i wish i never met you

i wish

i never met you, she says,

throwing

my clothes

out the window.

i run around

the yard

trying to catch my

shoes,

my good pants

and shirts.

my shaving kit.

my hats and gloves.

and then

a few of my books,

and at last

a frying pan,

which isn't mine so

i throw

it back.

don't forget to write

you will

write to me, won't you?

you'll find

the time, to drop me a line

when you

go overseas,

won't you?

do you have a pen to write

with?

do you have postcards

and envelopes,

stamps

and paper to jot notes

on?

don't leave me hanging,

please.

don't have me looking

out the window

down the street,

for mail to come.

or, i guess you could just

call.

here's my number.

no shady tree will do

i can't

sleep on the train

or bus,

or a plane.

i have to have a bed.

the car

won't do either,

especially if i'm behind

the wheel.

no sleeping bag

for me,

no park bench,

or shady tree.

no steam grate on Madison.

give me the big bed

with pillows,

give me

the stuffed with feathers

mattress,

lay me down on

800 count cotton sheets,

and then i'll fall

asleep.

hit the lights please.

the NYC public library

we sign

up for the library tour

in the city.

the New York City

library tour.

we have a sticker that

shows we are

a part

of the tour.

a group of twenty

from all over

the world.

our tour guide is bored

though.

she points at the marble,

the ceilings,

the floor.

she goes on and on

in a monotone

voice

telling us about

the rich and famous who

poured money

into it all.

the Astors and Fords

her voice echoes and disappears

in the long

hallways,

the tunnel of it all,

the book tomb

where we stand.

through another set of heavy

wooden doors

we go, the periodical

room where

the librarian puts a long

finger

to her lips

and says shhhhh.

we don't last long.

drifting off into the gift shop

where we'll

buy a magnet saying that

we've been here.

onto the fridge

it will go when we get home.

the neighborhood cherry tree

we had the cherry

tree

nearly picked clean of cherries

when

the owner came

home.

our pockets and bellies

were full.

but when the car appeared,

the headlights

turning into

the driveway, we froze,

and were still,

not wanting to be seen.

we hung on to the trunk

and branches

of the tree,

whispering to each other

to be quiet.

the man sat on his porch

for an hour smoking,

never saying a word.

and then his phone rang.

he yelled out to us from

his window,

telling us that it was time

for us to leave,

to go home,

it was our mother on the phone.

rearranging the deck chairs

i move

art around, making

new holes

in the wall. i shift

chairs,

turn the rug

in a different way,

maybe

a vase of flowers over

there,

not here.

i pull up the shade

to let

more light in.

i straighten books

on the shelf.

it's not the Titantic

going down,

but it feels like it

sometimes.

don't write a book about it

we all

have a story of some sort.

a tale

of joy and woe.

with a beginning,

a middle

and an 

uncertain end,

with

time still to go.

there's drama,

love and death,

remorse

and regret.

there's the formative

childhood years,

and the long stretch up

until now.

is it worthy of a book?

probably not.

sometimes it's best

to keep it to yourself.

why are you bleeding?

the masked

and gloved dental

hygienist 

hovers

over me with her tools

of the trade.

she tells me

that my blood pressure

is high today

and that my

gums are bleeding

when she

sticks the sharp metal

prong between

my teeth.

poking at my gums.

she acts as if she has

nothing to do with it.

but there's nothing

i can do or say because her

hands are in my mouth.

like a coal miner

in a cave

how love should be

as the train

moves

forward through the rain,

the seat

beside me is empty

until we stop

in Baltimore.

a woman

sits down in the empty

seat.

takes her coat off,

her scarf,

settles in with a book,

nods and says

hello.

this is how love should

be.

simple and quiet.

going forward

on a journey, giving

each other

room,

and when you get up

to leave, 

at your stop, being polite,

and saying

excuse me.

the stingy wealthy

why

work anymore.

there's mommy

and daddy,

and grandparents

with deep pockets

of love

and money.

not to mention Uncle

Sam,

both state

and local.

just put out your hand.

no need

to work anymore

and be a part

of the wheel that turns.

just live off

the kindness of strangers,

live off

the land.

let the rich take care of us,

they have so much

to give.

so much to spend.

sorry, but i can't hear you

i'm waiting

for my memory

to fail. so that i can stop 

remember things

that i don't want

to remember

anymore.

but selectively of course.

aging

is not so bad when

you think about.

take hearing as well,

waiting for it

to fade

so as not hear what

you don't want

to hear anymore.

cupping your ear

to ask "what did you say?"

whether they sit 

near or far.

hot stones on my back

where am I, 

I ask myself

as i lie down on the massage table

at Kim's Steam

and Massage

Parlor

next to the bowling alley,

adjacent to the airport

and Big Jim's bar and grille

beaming out its sign

to the interstate,

Liver and Onions night,

but where am i exactly

in this life?

is this it?

is this the end of the road,

or is there more?

so tight,

the massage therapist

says,

as she jumps up

and down with her little

feet

on my back.

relax, relax. she says,

you so intense.

i got you.

maybe hot stones?

salon and saloon

she's the plaza hotel,

i'm

motel six,

she's red wine and escargot,

i'm Five Guys

with bacon and  

American

cheese,

the patties

double stacked.

she likes

fine art,

Monet, Degas,

Seurat,

i settle on Rockwell,

and subway

graffiti.

she prefers the opera,

while

i turn up Led Zepplin,

and Tom Waits

8 track.

how this marriage lasted,

i'll never know.

my leg is asleep

my leg

is asleep, but i'm not,

i'm wide awake.

it tingles

from hip to foot

and

weirdly

burns

in a benign sort

of way.

so i shake it, which

wakes up

my wife, who asks me

what i'm doing.

go to sleep

she says.

i'm trying to, but only my

leg wants

to cooperate.

i saw a video on YouTube

the other day

on neuropathy,

i think i might have that.

oh my God,

she says,

then takes her pillow

to the other

room.

a small stoppage of time

it's a small speck,

a foreign

object stuck in

the corner of my eye,

no bigger

than a flea,

a gnat maybe, flown

into the white.

is it the end of the world?

no,

but it makes

me stop everything

i'm doing

until i take

a moment to rub it

free.

irreplaceable friends

your best

friend has died.

an irreplaceable

fixture in your life.

it's impossible to comprehend.

but you

go on.

what else is there to do.

you ride

by his house,

you dial his number.

you stare at the photo of him,

with you

together,

forever young.

you think that if you close

your eyes

and believe it isn't

true,

it won't be.

you avoid the cemetery,

why go there.

why weep anymore.

what's the use?

the beach awaits

i try

to tell my son, about

hard work.

the cliche

tale of a parent

trying to instill

some sort

of work ethic into him.

i tell him

about the roof tops i've

been on,

the ditches,

the long hours,

the grime of working

with your hands.

scraping by to make

ends meet,

the penny saved,

but it doesn't

sink in.

he's busy

on his phone, he has

friends,

a girlfriend

with long hair in the car.

he has places to go now,

without me,

there is nothing

to say

or do but to let him go,

to stand

at the door and wave

as he drives

away into his own life.

the beach

awaits.

getting clean

if i feel guilty

and disgusted with myself,

depressed 

and sad

about my desires

and actions,

my lack

of godliness about

the present

and past,

burdened by things

i've said,

i take a long shower.

i use soap, a scrub brush,

a washcloth,

i'm in there for an hour,

the hot water

on full blast,

then i feel

a little bit better,

but alas,

it doesn't last.

breaking news from Rome

the world

feels smaller these days.

it's the news,

the way it's in your face,

twenty-four seven,

seven

days a week.

we used to get it in

bits and drabs,

from the likes of Walter

Cronkite,

or Edward R. Murrow.

on the radio

in the kitchen, or on

the black and white tv,

with dad.

it came in mysterious bits

and pieces via

the paper on our porch,

or National

Geographic piled up

at the dentist office.

but now, the world is

in my phone

i have updates,

on Zaire, news from

Newfoundland,

the weather in Mozambique.

breaking news

from Rome.

the smoke is rising

there were

long ribbons of

smoke coming out of my window.

not white

or black

like at the Vatican,

but more of a grey

ash.

the smoke alarm

was going off, 

the dog was barking.

i had once more elected,

not for a new pope,

but to try 

and make

my own pizza

from scratch.

should we join the nudist colony

i think

we should join a nudist colony

for our next meet up

adventure,

my friend

Becky says,

as we sit on her front

porch

eating bon bons.

what?

it would be fun, to be

free of our

clothes,

to be out in nature

like the way

God made us.

unburdened by polyester

and cotton,

spandex,

dresses and pants,

shirts

and shoes.

no shame, no guilt,

just free as a bird walking

about.

what do you think?

no, i tell her.

what about bees

and poison ivy?

and there's a part of me

that i have no

control over

if i'm back in the wild.

the Caddy in the driveway

owning

a Cadillac used to mean that

you had arrived

at a certain stage in life,

it wasn't just

a car,

it was a message to your

neighbors

to your kids

and to your first ex-wife,

that you had money,

you had achieved a certain

status.

you were

a king of sorts.

but after twelve years in 

the driveway,

with rust and a cracked

windshield,

up on blocks,

the pizzaz wore off

and no one

seemed to care much

anymore.

and the Toyota you bought

seemed to get you

around

just fine now.

move your tongue to the left

open

wide, she says, masked

in blue,

hat and plastic

gloves on,

open wide and slide

your tongue

to the left,

please while i stick

this cardboard

gizmo

into your mouth,

we want to take a good look

at this one

tooth

in the back,

then she leaves the room.

i guess she's scared

of radiation too.

giddyup

do the horses,

ever say no,

i'm not doing this anymore.

do they stop

in the middle of a race

and say,

what the hell is going on?

why is this man whipping

me,

and crouched on

my back?

i'm going as fast as i can.

it's raining,

it's muddy, and the crowd

is drunk.

what do i get out of this,

some roses

around my neck

if i win,

some oats,

then out to stud to become

a sex slave

in the end.

working for the weekend

i like

to see people working

with their

hands,

their

bodies.

i like to see the sweat

on their

brow.

the concentration

of doing

one thing well, over

and over.

it's a saving grace,

the hard

job,

the job no one else wants.

there's serenity

in hard work,

and then

the simple joy

of the weekend

before it starts again.

eat until the bag is empty

the scientists

are in the lab working on a new

formula

based

on sugar

and salt, chemical

additives,

and unpronounceable

ingredients,

to figure out a new

addictive

product to put on the market.

we need them

to eat

until the bag or box

is empty.

crunchy would be nice.

we don't want them getting

up from their

easy chairs

while watching tv

to get

a bowl of broccoli,

or anything healthy.

how can we keep their hands

in the bag?

that's our mission today,

salty

and sweet with zero

nutritional value

and crunch.

the pessimists next door

as i sit

in my bathing suit

in the back

yard, drinking lemonade

and reading

ten places to visit

before you die,

i see the man

and his wife next door digging

an enormous

hole in

their back yard.

laying bricks,

putting up lumber and steel,

concrete

walls, and

onto the roof

brushing tar.

in the end

it's a well built and well stocked

bomb shelter

for when

the big one drops.

what pessimists,

they are.

how dare you vote for him

a handful

of so-called friends,

no longer

call,

or want to be around me

anymore.

i'm being punished.

they don't

like the way i voted.

ten, twenty and forty

years

of friendships

down

the drain,

over the ballot box

selection.

there is no middle ground

with them.

no joy,

no fun, no laughter.

they live

in a state of dark clouds

and pain.

oh well.

their loss, my gain.

the morning work out

as

i wait for the pot to boil

and then

for the

ground

coffee to absorb

the water

poured,

i lie down on the kitchen

floor

and do

a few pushups,

sit ups,

some stretching.

i tap my belly

like a small melon,

ripened

over time,

then pinch

the sides.

i use the sink and the dishwasher

door,

to rise.

the stairway to heaven

it sounds

familiar, the music easing out

of the overhead

imbedded

speakers.

who is that? Jim Morrison

and the Doors,

Jimi Hendrix

wanting to light my

fire?

i push my shopping cart

forward

to Janis weeping out Me

and Bobby McGee.

i put

a tube of Poli-grip

into the basket, a box

of Depends and

a six pack

of Ensure.

yes, my dear, we are that

old.

we're on the stairway

to heaven,

that's for sure.

let's dance this pain away

when

the hammer hits the thumb

and you

scream

and curse,

sticking it into your mouth,

trying to suck

the pain out of it,

you dance

around the room.

jumping

up and down,

but the dog,

mistakenly,

who was sound

asleep in a dream,

senses joy, and joins in.

new and improved Alcatraz

it doesn't seem

to deter

crime at all. the ball and chain,

the cell,

the electric

chair

or firing squad.

solitary

confinement with no

conjugal visits or wi-fi,

have no effect

on the criminally insane.

whether shipping

a criminal off to El Salvador

or a newly

restored Alcatraz,

it has no

effect at all

on outlaws.

you can't fix a mind

that's broken,

they are forever who

they are,

unchangeable,

take for instance my

former

mother-in-law.

the two pound fish

he put

up such a fight, the man says,

wiping

his brow,

removing his hat full of fishing

flies,

and hooks,

assorted weights.

his face is red

with sunlight,

nearly out of breath,

he shows

me the two pound fish

in the cooler

resting on ice,

ready

to be taken

home to his cutting board

and knife.

how much do you weigh?

i ask him,

two twenty, two twenty-five?

give or take he says.

depending on lunch.

weightlifter at gym,

aren't you?

yes, how did you know,

he says,

flexing his biceps.

i see, i see,

and that

little fish, this little fellow

who fought so hard

for his life,

with a hook in his mouth,

he's the one that put up

such a fight?

finding the bad boy

the nuns

in black, stood at each

corner

of the paved lot where we

played

at recess.

running wild

for a half

an hour.

like vultures they waited,

wordless,

hands

folded in front

of them.

searching

for that one bad boy

to smack.

dating the weather girl

she was the weather girl

on channel

nine,

when we were dating.

which she let

me know

in every conversation

we had.

you seem cloudy today,

she'd tell me.

when is your sun ever

going to come

out and shine?

why so cold,

so icy?

why so hot headed

all the time.

when we make love,

you're like a tornado

taking care of your needs,

spinning

out of control,

never worrying

about mine.

i'm stuck in a low pressure

system,

about to cry.

my love for you is now

at low tide.

morning assessment

my joints

could use a little oil,

a lube

job.

some screws could be tightened.

belts adjusted.

some

high octane coffee

into my tank.

i could use a good

run

through the car wash too.

a buff

and shine,

but other

than that,

on the inside,

once i'm out of bed,

i'm still the same.

falling to the ground

i listen.

i listen, then i can't listen anymore.

political

discussions will do that

to me.

no matter who you voted for.

so i stop

and stare out

beyond

where we're sitting.

i'm somewhere

else.

i'm levitating.

i'm flying on my magic

carpet.

i'm here,

but i'm in the air,

i'm out the door.

i focus

on a small plane entering

a cloud.

and then she says,

did you hear

what i just said?

what?

i ask her,

as i fall back to the ground.

restocking the friend shelf

i wake

up one morning, and it

occurs

to me

that many of my life long

friends

and lovers,

wives

and siblings

have either moved to Florida

or have died.

i look at my

phone.

dead, gone, old, dementia,

mad at me,

remarried,

destitute, cranky,

many with

addresses unknown.

i join a meet up group

to restock,

but after one hike in

the woods

with them, listening

to their

trials and tribulations,

their woes,

i realize that it's not so

bad

being alone.

the lender

it started years ago,

when

my neighbor would come over

and ask

to borrow

a drill, or a wrench, my

lawn mower.

do you mind if i borrow

your hedge

trimmer

for a while,

or your garden hose,

your grill,

or rake.

could i borrow your son

for awhile

to help

me clean out my gutters?

and now,

as i sit in my livingroom,

staring out

the window over

at his house,

i see my family,

over there and everything

i lent him,

and there's my wife,

baking him a cake.

off Broadway production

the ring

camera keeps us busy

the next day with

a video

of deer and raccoons

in the trash,

the neighbor

climbing

the fence getting home

late.

a woman

climbing out of a window

in her

negligee.

the thieves

jiggling the knob

to the back door,

prowling

about.

sometimes we set it

to music,

and dub

in dialogue to the nightly

play.

the luck of a rabbit's foot

not so lucky

is the rabbit

once attached to the rabbit

foot

i linked

together with my key

ring.

luck,

i suppose is relative,

i think,

as i stroke the soft

fur

of Bugs Bunny's foot,

hobbled

in his cage.

chewing through the leather straps

some mornings you wake

up

and just don't have

the strength or

ambition

to chew through the leather

straps that

hold you down.

so you lie there and wait

for help to come.

sometimes

help comes, and sometimes

it doesn't.

run towards the light

maybe a day,

a few

days, but that's about it.

surviving

in the post-apocalyptic

world.

with no

running water,

heat

or electricity,

indoor plumbing or

Starbucks.

no cell phone, or 

you tube

to while away the hours.

best run

towards the light

when the big one drops.

no reason

in going on.

the waitress at Moe's Diner

she tells me

that i'm lucky to have her

as a friend

and possible lover,

if things

turn out right.

wink wink wink.

i'm a regular, so she

knows my name.

i used to be

a cheerleader,

she says,

a model, an actress.

i have an MFA from

Columbia,

and have published

many poems

in high brow

periodicals.

i could have been

a Rockette

on Broadway, take a long

look at these legs.

she raises

the hem of her

dress and apron

to show me

the right leg, then the left.

i'm taking night

classes now

to become a nurse.

she adjusts her blonde wig

where a pen

rests behind her ear.

i tell her, that's great,

that's great.

can i have a menu?

and what's the special today?

still serving

that Salisbury Steak?

the park rendezvous

in the dark graveled lot,

beneath the

overhang

of old trees,

in the far corner

where few can see.

are the married lovers

meeting

for their

Wednesday rendezvous.

their parked cars side by side,

with the windows

rolled up,

together at long last,

scrunched down

in one seat.

it's as old as anything

old can be.

park adultery.

going out of business

in the end

everything you have

will belong

to someone

else,

friend

or child,

brother or sister, 

strangers

not yet born.

a piece, if not all of you

will be handed

down

or sold.

everything you held

so dear,

so close,

and never

wanted to let go,

will go.

the underlined poem

restless and bored,

we sat

in class and waited for the poet

to arrive

and to read

from his latest volume

of poems.

we were bored

with his

telling of his life.

distracted

by the open window

and spring weather,

we were

disinterested

in his trials and tribulations,

the events

that brought him

to write.

he read his poems, one after

another,

and then

there were tears in his

eyes

after one poem

about his child who had died.

suddenly we listened.

i'm looking

at his book now

forty years later,

the same poem underlined

not to worry

as a child

you tend to worry,

you worry

about school and friends,

are you liked?

the test you

have to take,

will you make the team,

will you

ever kiss the girl 

you like.

will you ever grow

from

this small size,

be strong enough to

win a fight?

and then you get older

and older

and

you learn to pretend

not to worry

about anything anymore,

you've learned to do it

out of sight.

the king size bed

at first,

it's a small rocking

cradle of some

sort

that holds you.

then a crib,

a happy cage of sorts,

then

a day bed

by the window, but

still with

bars so that you don't

fall out

and then

the twin bed

when reaching school age,

the dormitory slab

or single bed,

eventually a double

bed or queen

when you're on

your own,

and others might join you

in sleeping,

and at last

when you have the money

and the room

to put it in,

you graduate

to king.

the rusting knight in shining armor

don't paint

your heroes too white

at first.

your latest knight

in shining armor

to prove your ideological

point.

wait

for the research to be done.

the confessions,

the witnesses,

the video tapes,

the forensic files

and fingerprints.

the court complaint

from the wife.

don't make haste with

the leader

of your cause.

maybe wait and give

it some time.

impossibly crimson

there are, or will be a poem

about

every season

in your life,

whether short or long,

whatever

length of time the good

Lord provides,

the words

will spring forth, but

all in good time,

for now,

let's stick to the red bird

sitting on the sill,

impossibly crimson.

there's someone following me

out of the corner

of my eye

i catch someone following

me.

a shadowy figure

in a tan trench coat,

he's fleet of foot, 

and wearing a fedora hat,

creeping

closer and closer

when i look back.

i cross the street,

duck into an alley,

turning

over trashcans behind me

to slow his pursuit.

i zig zag.

i go through a Chinese

restaurant

and slip

out the back.

i go down into subway,

and take

the first train coming,

but he's still

after me,

i can see him running,

after the train.

waving at me through

the glass.

he's holding a briefcase

in his hand,

it looks like mine.

i see my initials on it,

and where the dog chewed

the corner.

but it's too late,

i've lost him 

as the train speeds forward

on the north bound track.

healthy as a horse

my doctor tells me that i'm

healthy as a horse

as he takes the blood pressure

wrap off my arm.

i put my clothes

back on

and ask him what he means

by that.

i'm as healthy as a horse?

do i look like a horse,

do i have flies

around me,

do i eat hay?

no, no, no.

it's an old expression.

i'm just saying,

you're very healthy.

it's just a saying.

but why say healthy as a horse?

horses get

sick, don't they?

i saw a horse lying in the street

once, when

i was a kid

and a policeman

shot him.

he didn't look too healthy.

in fact he was foaming

at the mouth.

i think you should stop

saying that to people,

it makes no sense. no sense

at all.

okay, okay.

he says.

whew.

see you in six months.

by the way,

i think you are overdue for

a colonoscopy.

you have two new messages waiting

my phone

keeps telling me that i have

two new

messages

on Facebook.

yawn.

but they aren't new,

it's the same

two messages

from six years ago,

when Betty

baked a cake

and Sally

was bitten by a snake

on her farm.

i guess i should write

back at some

point

and ask them, hey,

how's it going.

she left in a huff

every now and then,

i'd say

something stupid

or insensitive, which

is hard to believe,

and the woman

i was dating at the time,

would leave the room

in a huff.

i'd watch her put her

clothes on,

grab her coat,

slip into her shoes, then

take her leftover

salmon from the fridge,

and without a word,

storm out the door.

sometimes leaving

it open, but most times

giving it a punctuation mark slam.

i'd sit there and think,

was it something i said.

hmmm.

sometimes they'd

come back in,

or phone me on their

way home,

to give me what for,

i'd hold the phone

away from my ear,

and muster out a few

i'm sorries for

whatever it was i did, or said,

i'll never do it again,

i promise,

i'd tell her while i flipped

through channels,

holding the remote,

but usually it all smoothed

out by the end

of the week and she came

back over carrying

an apologetic pot roast

in her arms.

online dating and the pound

going to the pound

to pick

out a pup,

or a rescue dog

reminds me a lot of

online dating

for seniors.

you point at one

and say,

hmm.

she barks a lot and bites,

damaged goods,

maybe abused and not

over it yet.

i'm getting the vibe

of a sociopath,

and that one

there,

a little tubby around

the waist,

always in the trash?

a sweet tooth maybe.

and this one

here, asleep, shaking in

a dream.

maybe in need

of some counseling

or therapy.

that one is pretty, 

love the rhinestone collar,

and long blonde hair,

and yet,

when annoyed by the dog

in the cage

next to her,

she bares her teeth.

a full blown

narcissist i presume.

this other one though,

on her hind

legs with tongue out

and happy, almost too

anxious though

to please.

codependent, no doubt.

so many are

too young, too old.

some full of heartworms

and fleas,

with broken tails

that no longer wag.

what about a cat, this time.

the Derby party

we go

to the Kentucky Derby party.

all the women

are wearing

big flowery hats

and dresses revealing

bosoms that haven't

seen the light

of day

since last year's event.

and the men

are in seer sucker suits,

blue

and green,

yellow and white,

like bridesmaids

at a wedding.

a flask of Kentucky

whiskey

in hand.

most of these people

have never seen

a horse in person, let

alone

ride one down a path.

but they love the race,

the drinking,

the mint juleps

and cute

boy like jockeys.

the stories of the rich

daddies,

lathered in

money handed down

from one plantation

to the next.

they scream and yell,

for their

chosen horse,

after five hours of preliminary

gab,

and then

three minutes later,

it's over.

and that's that.

we're leaving now

she gets

the itch to travel every

now

and then.

i'll see her bags packed

by the door,

her coat on,

her hat,

a handful of maps

in her hand.

the latest Fodor

book

on London,

or Pakistan.

where we going now,

i'll ask

her from the couch,

reading

the paper.

don't worry about it,

she says.

now put some pants

on

and let's go.

the Uber is here,

we're leaving now.

i have needs

do i need

a tv in every room?

a laptop,

a chair

with a pole lamp

to read

by.

do i need a shelf

of books

against every wall,

in every

room,

down every hall?

do i need an open

bottle

of water

left around

on every table,

and a can of assorted

nuts,

wherever i turn?

apparently, i do.

waking up with cold water

as i stand

under

the pulse of frozen ropes of water

coming out

of the shower,

the sleep

leaves me,

the weariness goes

away.

dreams

and sluggishness dissolves.

yes it hurts,

yes it stings.

but i know no other

way

to come alive

in the morning, and then

coffee.

unless

Betty arrives.

i don't like lima beans

when growing up

i'd hear

hear people say,

i hate

lima beans,

or cold

weather,

maybe ice,

or snakes,

bugs of some sort.

they might say they lean

left or right,

politically,

making light of Nixon,

or Kennedy,

but rarely

did you ever hear

with such venom

expressions

of hatred

like they do now

for the President

of the United States.

i'm listening

the beauty

of

a book or film, is that

if you

don't like it,

or get bored 

you can just set it down,

or turn it off,

not so

with friends

or relatives, they seem

to get annoyed

if you

doze off

before the conversation

ends.

when the Jones's moved in

we hovered

around

average for most of our lives.

we were

average looking,

with

average intelligence,

we lived in

an average house,

in an

average neighborhood.

we drove an

average car.

our income was average.

our kids

hovered around

average

in nearly everything.

our dog had an average

bark.

nothing about us ever

stood out.

but we were happy.

blissful

almost in our average ways.

never wanting

more or less.

and then the Jones's

moved in next door

and everything changed.

we get along now

we used to fight

and argue

over the smallest of things.

the tv

on or off,

the lights being too bright

or soft.

salted

butter

on the green beans.

the ac or heat,

being too

cold or hot.

we disagreed

on nearly everything.

though we

loved each other,

but now, none of it seems

to matter,

although,

i wish she wasn't in the bathroom

so long.

because you never know

there's a box

of wires

in the hall closet. long black

strands.

unpowered veins,

balled

wires, wrapped tight,

held together

with rubber bands.

all with plugs

of various types,

for the wall or car.

phone wires

from land lines

and chargers.

laptops and desktops,

iPads,

monitors,

speakers.

wires to things i no

longer have,

and have forgotten

about,

but we can't throw them

away,

can we?

because you never know.

word of the day

i say no.

no.

i like the sound of it rolling

off my tongue,

out of my

mouth

into the air.

no.

it's a word so rare,

but not

anymore,

my dear.

here, let me say again,

come near.

no.

did you hear it.

no.

are we clear?

who has the time?

with hand

made signs and streaks

of color

in their hair,

weighed down

by an assortment of metal,

pins

and hooks,

rings,

with enormous

holes

in lips

and ears,

they appeared to be of a low

wattage

group

of souls, protesting, while

children

in cribs, in schools,

in the woods,

waited at home

or near about.

was there work being missed?

books left unread,

clothes to fold?

was there a pot left

unattended,

waiting to be stirred

on some stove?

these chants, so much like

children's

nursery rhymes.

who has the time?

where will this all go?

things would never be the same

i came

home early from work one day,

the ex-wife,

number two,

was packing up all of my books,

books i've bought

and read

since the ninth grade.

they were all boxed

and ready to go

out the door when i arrived.

not a second

too late.

what's going on, i asked her.

what are you doing

with all my books?

my Raymond Chandler,

Larkin and Lowell,

my Cheever and Updike,

my Plath and Sexton,

my Raymond Carver

and Bukowski,

my Mark Twain.

i'm giving them away, she said.

i need more room

on the shelves

for nick knacks.

maybe the homeless would like

things to read.

then i reminded her

of a place called

the public library.

what else was there to say?

things would never be the same.

the nightly news on msnbc

in a month

or so,

we won't have food,

or milk

to drink.

no water, people will

be picked

up off the street

indiscriminately.

arrested

for nothing more than

a bad hair cut

and deported to

El Salvador.

dogs will be put down,

no singing will

be allowed,

there will be locusts

and droughts,

famine.

floods and pestilence.

the world will end

in a few weeks.

unwanted babies will be born.

boys won't have surgeries

to become girls,

and no longer will they be

allowed to

compete in girls' sports.

vaccines

will be unlawful.

everyone will be saluting

the orange man,

sieg heil.

the elderly will be taken

off welfare

and oxygen

and set out into fields

to die.

democracy will end.

the constitution

burned.

so that's the news for now.

but we'll be right back

after

this brief message

from our friends

at big Pharma selling us

Prozac

and boxed wine

and a new book

describing

the environmental dangers

of flatulence 

from cows.

the geometry of cheese

i like

to circle the cheese section

of the grocery store.

it's a pentagon

shaped

area surrounded

by cool bins

of wrapped cheese.

there's a man

and woman back there

in white smocks.

cheese surgeons, i guess.

busy with

knives as they cut

enormous

blocks of cheese

on cutting boards.

all this cheese, the varieties,

the sizes,

the bricks

and rounds,

the triangles.

the rhombus cuts,

the squares and rectangles.

i circle and observe,

circle and read

the labels

until security comes.

finding love on the bus

sometimes

i pretend

i'm choking on a walnut

or something

so that

people

on the bus will ask me if

i'm okay.

are you okay

sir?

they say.

do you need help?

can you breathe?

do you want me to sit

with you a while,

give you a Heimlich

squeeze?

yes. i tell them,

yes,

please.

i'm that desperate

for love

and affection these days.

it's a bird, it's a plane, it's...it's oh, a weather balloon

everyone

has

a phone that can take

a picture,

or a video,

and it's perpetually

in your hand,

and yet, there's not

one clean

clear shot, or

close up of a UFO

or a little

green man

from Mars or Jupiter.

no photo of big foot,

or the loch ness monster,

but fall

down a flight

of stairs and you're

immortalized

forever.

detailed and in living

color

as you tumble

and flop.

and finally nameless

once sharp

and bright as any light,

she suddenly repeated herself

in conversation.

asking

the same

questions

over and over, forgetting

what she

had said

two minutes before.

a button had been pushed.

the rewind

button.

it was a long five

years

from that point,

until the end.

finally

remembering nothing,

not even

our names.

sprinkles and nuts

it takes

so much energy to hate,

to be

negative.

to live in the dark

stew

of resentment.

swallowing

that poison

day after day.

give

me the elixir of love

please,

the ice-cream

of happiness.

a banana split

at the drug store

counter

with Marracino cherries,

sprinkles and nuts.

bricklayer's helper

just one

long day in the dirt and debris

on a barren

site,

where timber

and steel

went up.

i pushed a wheel

barrow along a narrow board,

filled with

bricks

and stones,

i heard the men groan

as they

built the walls.

raising them,

one brick after another,

quietly

and slow.

they were silent for the most

part,

other than curses,

and vague talk

of women.

their skin was

bronzed and burned,

with hard hats

tilted on,

Da Vinci sculptures

with muscled necks, and rope

like veins

on their arms.

they exhaled the whiskey,

from the night

before.

over here, they'd yell,

over here kid,

what the fuck, come on.

more bricks, more mud,

not knowing

my name,

nor would they ever know it.

it was my first day

on the job,

and my last.

the next morning i never

felt such pain,

and was unable to get out of bed.

i stared at the ceiling

and wondered how

those men could go on.

the heat of summer nights

okay,

i'll admit it.

i was in love with her.

i stood outside

her house

and threw pebbles at her

window,

until she came

out.

it wasn't sex, it was

nothing like that.

we were

young, too young to understand

what made

this world go around.

it was more

like two fireflies

buzzing

about,

our hearts

flashing in the heat

of summer nights.

shaving her head while she sleeps

i stare

into the shallow pool

of water

sitting

in the sink and sigh.

where's the plunger?

i yell

to the wife.

where's the Drano,

where's

a clothes hanger?

she doesn't answer,

she's in the other

bathroom,

brushing out her foot

long red hair

into another sink.

the once shiny apple

i can

no longer shine

the apple

of you or hide

the brown

spot

were rot has formed.

i know too much now.

the flies

have gathered.

you're on 

your own from

here

on out.

was it fun while

it lasted?

honestly, no.

smoke em if you got em

everyone

used to smoke.

my mother smoked,

my father,

my grandmother always

had a pack

of Virginia Slims

next to her

cup of Earl Grey tea

short cake.

ashtrays were in every home.

doctors smoked,

construction workers.

men,

women.

office workers.

cigarettes were free

in the military.

men about to be executed

by the firing squad

wanted one

last puff

before the bullets hit

their heart.

people smoked after sex,

after dinner,

in night clubs,

at bars.

it was cool, hip, slick

and sophisticated

to puff on a cigarette.

rich or poor.

everyone was a movie star

with a Camel

clutched between their lips

with a ribbon of smoke

in their eyes.

it didn't matter

what the research said,

or what was

printed on the side of

the package.

just one more puff,

one more.

one small nibble of a donut

it takes

one small bite, a mere

nibble

of a donut

and i'm back on the sugar

train.

slipping a pack

of Oreo

cookies into my cart,

along

with ice-cream

and cake.

Twizzlers

and junior mints.

how easily we're tempted.

maybe being fat

is just our fate.

i don't like people anymore

as i sit

in the DMV, it occurs

to me

that i don't like people anymore.

the woman

sitting next

to me

is eating from a bag of

Doritos.

crunching loudly

each bite

into my ear.

a kid

behind me keeps

smacking

my seat, and making

monkey noises.

and the man sitting across

from

me,

won't stop looking at me

as he flosses

his teeth.

i look at the ticket in my

hand,

number one hundred

and nineteen

and they're only on six.

i've had it with people.

the lost train of thought

i was on

the brink of a new thought,

a new

way of thinking,

a door had

opened up.

a brilliant poetic topic

had appeared

like an angel

in the clouds,

and then

it was lost.

i lost my train of thought.

the damn

phone

dinged again,

that toilet that continues

to flush.

i'm still your friend

i don't care

if we disagree, i'm still your friend.

it doesn't

bother me,

the purple hair

and nose

ring or

our

political differences.

none of that matters.

i'm still

your friend.

if you fall, i'll help you up.

if you're

hungry i'll feed you,

if you're sad and lonely,

i'll sit with you

and talk.

no need for this friendship

to end.

if you're thirsty, here,

take my

cup.

the wrong side of the bed

is there

a wrong side of the bed

to get up

on?

is that true,

or just a myth.

i try it out one morning

after you've

left

and trip on your

high heels,

your balled up clothing

and make up kit,

falling

into the closet door

banging my head.

it's true

after all. there is a right

side and a wrong

side to this bed.

the ship is tilting our side

the cruise

is all

about food and drink.

we'll never leave this ship

and go

onshore.

it's about

meat and potatoes,

fish

and desserts.

pizza

and sushi.

puddings and pies,

pina coladas

galore.

we bring our stretch

pants,

our spandex,

our extra-large robes

and undergarments.

it's seven days

on the high seas.

the feedbag is on

as we stretch out on our

chairs

by the whirlpool.

snapping our fingers

at a waiter

for more drinks,

more food.

the barb wire fence

the barbed

wire

should do it, keep

the chickens

in.

keep

the wolves out.

the fox

from

finding their own

convenient

dinner.

it's a squared

yard

for them to peck at

the ground

until

fat.

it won't be long.

valid once more

i stand

in line at the DMV

to apply

for my Real I

D.

the passport, the birth

certificate,

the bills

and credit cards are not enough

anymore

to prove

my legal

existence.

i bring my mother and children

with me

to be a witness

for my proof of life,

my valid

citizenship to these united

states.

it only

takes a mere ninety minutes,

circling the room,

from chair to chair,

and i'm

out the door.

valid once more.

bless you

there's an

inch

of yellow pollen

on the car,

the sill where the window

has been

raised.

the cars,

the table,

the lamps.

it's a wind of tiny grains

of seed

and sand.

i bend 

and sneeze, again,

again.

very very quiet people next door

i see

a baby in the yard.

the man

sitting outside fiddling

with a spade

in the dirt.

i say hello,

and stare

at the little baby in

the small

crib.

he has a shock of black

hair

and wandering

fingers

and eyes.

pink arms

stretching out into

this new

unknown world.

is that yours? i ask him.

yes.

he says.

my wife and i, it's ours.

five months

ago. oh my,

i say out loud.

i haven't heard a sound.

the smudge of a kiss

she used

to send me postcards

from

whatever city she was in.

from

whatever country

she visited.

whether Paris

or Rome,

Perth or Bonn.

a brief note

handwritten on the back.

wish you were

here.

with love,

Allie,

along with

the smudge of a kiss.

and then they stopped.

knowing every word to every song

is it over

for the rock and rollers.

soft or hard.

has

all the good

music

been done.

from the late 50's

into the 80's.

is that it?

no more Buddy Holly,

or Zed Zeplin,

no more

Elvis,

or Pat Benatar.

no Croce,

or Dylan,

Costello or Elton.

no more songs

to dance

to, to sing too,

to roll the window

down in

the car

and drive to, knowing

every word

as we sing along.

we need more babies

we're running

low

on babies,

the population is dying out.

all colors

and sizes,

races

and religions.

we need more babies.

come on

people,

get busy with getting

more born

before it's too late.

let's have some fun

like in the olden days.

come on.

let's go.

playing at funeral

in a cardboard

box

we take

the small bird, a parakeet,

no bigger than the palm

of a hand,

bright yellow

and green

now folded into

it's own wings,

we take it

to the back of the yard

for burial.

behind the shed, beneath

old brush

and trees.

we're playing at death

now.

teaching

the young,

how it's done.

we take the shovel

and dig,

set the box into

the shallow grave and cover

it up

with freshly turned

dirt and grass.

we say

a few words.

we thank the bird for

it's short

sweet life,

the whistling we heard,

then go out to lunch

for happy meals.

being judgmental

you're so judgmental,

i tell my friend

Betty

while we

sit in a restaurant, staring

at a menu.

she's a circuit court judge

in town.

well, that's my

job,

she says.

i carefully listen to both

sides of the story

and determine

by facts, not emotion

or political persuasion if

the perp is guilty or not

guilty.

and then i hand down my

ruling.

i'm rarely ever wrong.

so what do you see on the menu

that you

want to eat, my judicial friend?

hmmmm.

she says.

i can't decide.

do the cooks here

vote on the left

or right?

right.

oh no, well,

we can always go somewhere else.

it's hard being God

i stare

at the fish washed up on shore,

bloated

with air

and rot.

i poke it with a stick,

it's dead,

of course.

do i push it back into the water,

or let the sun

and gulls have

their way with it?

it must be hard being God.

finding the right protest to go to

feeling bored

on this wet Saturday morning,

i get an itch

to get out of the house.

tired of being in.

i need to go somewhere, but

where?

i go online to see if there's

a new protest

going on,

something i can participate in.

i could make a sign,

a banner of some sort.

maybe paint my face, or

wear a colorful outfit.

i go through the list of protests

that i find online.

there's a save the whale one

down on the mall,

mixed in with saving a variety

of shellfish

and turtles,

and another one where you chain

yourself to the white house fence,

for some obscure cause.

something about plastic.

there's one more at the National

Zoo, for the release of all

the animals unfairly caged

and improperly groomed.

i can't decide, but then it starts

to rain really hard,

so i give up on the idea,

and take a nap on the couch.

making new friends

the almost

famous

singer wants to friend me on

Facebook.

she's beautiful,

so why not.

i confirm our friendship

with a push

of the button.

but before

long,

after some flattering

small talk,

she asks me for money.

just a little to

tide her over

until her next world tour

and gig

in the states.

she suggests using

pay pal, or Zelle,

or a cash app.

i ask her, what's that?

suddenly

we're no longer friends,

and she's gone.

a little personal time

i call

my boss, Mr. Jones, and tell him

that i'm

not coming in to work

today.

i need some personal

time.

another personal day off.

i'm going through

some issues

with family and finances.

my mental health

and my

dog who has fleas.

he listens to me rattle

off my reasons

for not coming in.

using a soft low whisper

to win over

his sympathy.

i see, he says,

then tells me plainly

that if i'm not in by nine

a.m. today.

i'm fired. it's time to join

the human race.

he says.

grow up, grow a pair

and get in here. we need you.

quickly i take a shower,

get dressed,

and run

for the bus, i don't want

to be late.

they know rain

the leaves

turn up

in the quick breeze

like small palms

or cups

ready

for what's coming next

under

the darkening sky.

they know,

before we

do.

they understand

without complaint.

it's not love

exactly,

but they know rain.

the duplicate key

i see the doorknob

turn, a twist

in the soft light,

testing to see if i've

left the door

unlocked,

which i haven't.

then

the click of a key,

pushed in and turned,

then taken out.

are you home?

i hear you ask,

in a half whisper,

using that old familiar

voice of yours.

i see you standing

in the hall,

wet from the rain,

dropping your bags

to the floor.

what now?

why do you live here?

years and years ago,

we tied

the small boat 

we arrived on 

to the pier.

pulling

tight

on the knot,

but the water pulled

at it,

wind and rain,

working it free.

casting

the boat back

out onto the waves,

back out

to sea.

it's why we live here

now.

the man in you

the man

in you,

the father, the son,

the brother,

the boy,

the teenager, the child

of you.

is all wrapped

into one.

dumb and smart

at the same,

time

wise

and foolish.

each day a set 

of new

choices

to be made, or

undone.

self portraits

the portrait

gallery

is full of faces staring back

into ours.

no pictures

or photographs

but an artist's rendition

of who

these people were.

oils

and acrylics,

sketches made

in charcoal.

some shadowed

some

basking in British

sunlight.

we learn

their lives

as we walk down

the alley

of art.

wondering if we're ever

happy with

who we are.

i will never run out of ink or socks

it's hard

to walk by a set of ink pens

in the store

without buying another pack

of them.

fine pointed,

or roller ball, black or blue

ink.

i haven't counted,

for who has the time

for that,

but i do believe i have over

three hundred

and seventy-nine

ink pens in my house.

in drawers,

on tables,

in pockets. 

in the cubby holes of my car.

don't even ask me about

pairs of black socks.

what is a woman?

how did it become

a hard

question?

what is a woman?

i take out a picture from

my wallet

of my mother,

and say,

there you go. she's a woman.

seven kids

came out of her,

and then

a picture

of Marilyn Monroe

in a bathing suit.

she's a woman too.

factory parts, nothing added

or subtracted.

Jimmy in a dress

wearing lipstick is not a woman.

why is this question

so hard?

the onslaught of propaganda

it's nearly

impossible to watch the news

or listen

to anything

coming out of someone's

mouth and not

think it's

a lie, or some kind of distorted

half truth

heard

from

an unreliable source,

called

the newspaper

or a magazine, or God forbid.

a news

anchor on tv.

sugar craving

when

the desire for a sweet

hits

your brain,

that's it.

you're stuck until

something

gooey

is in your mouth.

the craving has begun.

a gum

drop will do,

an old candy bar

from

Halloween,

a candy cane with the

plastic

glued to it,

or 

that plate of Christmas

candy,

melded together,

still on your mother's

coffee table

in the other room.

sampling throughout the house

i carry

books around the house

for future

reading.

a novel

here, a poetry book in the bedroom,

a book

full essays,

in the kitchen.

against the tub and shower

famous quotes

from comedians

and politicians,

(is there a difference?)

each book opened and turned

to a page

earmarked for a line

or phrase,

underlined,

something of interest

i want to steal at some point

and call my own.

some birthdays are better than others

she settles on one

candle

for her cake.

a cup cake, because,

we're all continually

watching our

weight.

she buys herself a gift,

wraps it,

then unwraps it after

blowing out

the candle.

she feigns surprise

at the silver necklace,

then opens

up the card that says,

i love you,

another year,

but we're still alive.

a card she sent last week.

she's alone, but pours

herself a drink.

sings happy birthday

to herself.

the cat is asleep on

the windowsill.

she puts some music

on and dances

across the room.

some birthdays are

better than others.

and now what?

why does

one country want

to destroy

the country

beside them, 

to conquer the land

and people,

to bomb the buildings,

villages, towns and cities.

schools

and churches.

to wreak havoc everywhere.

what's the point?

it's all rubble now,

it's hell on earth,

but at last it's yours.

so, are you happy?

he's unbroken

the dog

chases everything.

he's that kind of dog.

the kind that doesn't listen

or obey.

he breaks all the rules

and jumps

the fence.

he's unbroken.

we're

the same.

keep rowing

no land in sight,

but we keep rowing,

we keep

at it.

what else is there to do?

get some sleep,

i'll continue

on through the night.

together we can get there.

rest your head.

i'll let the stars guide us.

sleep well.

i'm here for you.

you'll see, in the morning.

we'll see land,

we'll see the other side.

rainy day money

it's rainy

day

money in the blue

bowl

on top

of the refrigerator.

coins,

nickels and dimes,

quarters,

pennies.

will it ever rain

so hard

that i will need it?

i hope not.

Saturday Morning in the barber's chair

he was a large man

with fingers

like sausages.

i was

a small boy sitting in

his barber's chair.

i could smell the onions

on his fingers,

the garlic

on his breath,

the salami, the prosciutto 

the provolone.

his belly bumped

the chair

as it spun around,

there was a long striped sheet

wrapped

around me,

my shoes dangled

in the air

not reaching the leather

step.

i heard the scissors

snapping

like crickets,

dancing

around my ears.

the girls will love you,

when i'm finished,

he said, with a laugh,

dusting my neck with

a cloud of powder,

then giving my cheeks

a gentle

slap with a blue cologne.

i drifted off, as if

in a dream,

wondering which girl i'd

pick,

which one would be

the lucky one.

who would be my queen.

after what you told them

it feels like a strange

city,

now, this place

where i used

to live.

the roads have changed.

buildings

torn down,

new ones risen from

the graves

the old.

i have no idea where

i'm going but

i'm getting looks from

people

on the street.

windows

are being closed,

curtains

drawn,

i can hear the dead

bolts slide

as each door is

locked.

i should have never

come back

to my hometown

after what

you told them.

i'm taking the next

bus out.

waiting on your arrival

the cat

is unbothered by our lack

of attention.

the feeling

is mutual.

but the dog is another story

altogether,

anxious,

worried about love

and affection.

staring out the window

wondering

when you'll be home.

just like us,

no different.

limping home on one shoe

i'll return

this shoe you left behind

at some point.

i'll call you up

and tell you

that i have it.

it's black and almost new,

worn once

or twice,

quite nice.

i wonder how you limped

home without it.

sweeping up birds

why

some birds fly into the window

i'll never know,

they have the whole

sky to themselves,

blue as far

as the eye can see,

and yet.

clunk,

another one decides

to end

it all, to see what's

inside, where

i am,

behind

the glass wall.

rebels with a myriad of causes

the protest

is a mishmash of concerns.

it's not

just one issue

they're here for. it's many.

from

wars

and climate,

to transgenders and 

government spending.

it's everything

under the sun,

that they're screaming

and marching for.

it's not

just for women's rights,

or the unborn,

the price of eggs,

or immigration

reform,

it's a whatever's ailing you

march.

come one,

come all.

wave whatever flag

you want,

in some crazy way

it's something to do,

it's fun.

a row of turtles

it's a line

of turtles on the long branch

resting

in the water.

a set of helmets,

dark brown,

like steel

and hatched, necks out,

long

into the sunlight.

a dozen or more,

no sound,

no quarrel.

just bathing in the warmth

of spring

side by side.

end to end.

whether left or right

you have

to laugh, you have to have

a sense

of dark

humor to survive

in this world.

you have

to shake your head

and scoff.

it's the only

way to move on from

all the craziness

out there.

why argue, why fight,

why try

to make

someone see the other

side.

it's hopeless.

whether left or right.

i used to care but things have changed

my complaints

are less

verbal these days and more

internal.

i breathe them out daily,

though.

exhaling

the toxic fumes

i've taken in.

with age i've come to realize

how pointless

it is

to rage.

i used to care, as Dylan says,

but i've changed.

in the hands of others

the mail

is unreliable.

it comes, or it doesn't come.

there's a new

mail

person every other day.

sometimes

it's late,

sometimes

it's in a neighbor's box,

or torn

or wet from the rain.

i find

on the street my retirement

statement,

a valentine card

from a sweetie.

last months electric bill,

now late.

so often our lives turn

on the hands

of others.

remembering nearly everything

even at the end

of a long

life,

lying in bed, nearly done,

with eyes

closed,

the sound

of a screen door

slamming, or the bark

of a dog,

will bring to mind

nearly

everything.

in line for a bagel with everything

as we

stand in line for a bagel,

a block

from Central Park,

the snow

covers our hair,

puts roses on our cheeks,

puts sparkles

in our eyes.

the line crawls slowly

to the door.

but we're in no hurry,

the waiting

is divine.

from a distant star

from

another planet or star,

from

some far away

galaxy,

as they look down upon us,

do they see

that not everyone is crazy

here.

that there

are good people too.

sane

and reasonable?

not at war

and full of hate and pain.

do they laugh at us,

at the riches

we have,

the blessings of an ocean,

and wildlife,

flowers?

do they not see the smiles

on children's faces

as they bite

into the cold red fruit

of a summer

watermelon?

Moe's Diner

everyone

needs a corner diner.

an old place

that should have been

torn down years ago,

but still serves

a decent breakfast,

brought to your table by

a busty woman

with red hair

named Marge.

you need the skinny guy

in the back,

with a paper hat,

working the skillet.

still rattled by war or something

in his childhood.

but he knows how

to flip and egg or

flap jack.

his bacon is perfect.

and the coffee keeps coming.

there's a juke box

on the table

with songs by Elvis

and Nancy Sinatra.

Mel Haggard.

it takes nickels and dimes,

quarters.

there is no breaking news

there's breaking news,

as proclaimed by

the enormous

red lettering

pulsating on the screen

damaging your retinas.

but not

really.

it's old stale news

from yesterday

but wrapped up

nicely with a few more

juicy morsels of maybes.

they've put a ribbon on it

and will be opening

it after

the next commercial

break, stayed tuned.

don't change the channel,

don't move.

the cafeteria line

the fat

women in white smocks

and aprons,

some shorter than we were,

with

hair nets,

and muscled arms

were behind the counter

setting up

more plates

of Salisbury steaks

and green

beans.

a dollop of 

mashed carrots

in shallow bowls,

lining up dixie cups

of stewed tomatoes,

and then

the Jello,

squared onto a plate

with a puff

of cool whip.

we avoided

eye contact with them as

we slid our

trays along. was it really

food?

who's to know.

2 pm Physics class

we sat

in school, bored.

staring

out the window

at spring.

the teacher at the front

of room,

bored too,

but continuing to write

on the blackboard

with her white chalk.

she wanted

to go home too.

the clock would never

move,

the black hands

defying

the laws of gravity

and physics.

all the things we were

supposed to learn

and understand.