keep it moving

somehow

the line moves forward

in the bagel

shop,

winding out the door

towards

central park.

it's not unlike the stock

market

early in the morning.

there's shouting

and bumping

of shoulders, indecision,

and barking

out of orders.

but we get there.

we get our tightly

knit

bag

of two bagels,

onion and cinnamon,

one with cream cheese

the other

buttered and toasted.

but the coffee is bad.

the green people

we need

blue people. people with

blue

skin, or green,

so that we can

all get together

as one

and hate them

and stop

hating each other.

we need an alien

migration

to land

to pick on.

a common cause

to bring us

all together. now let's

all join

and hands and sing.

going shopping with women

when i would go shopping with her,

the first

thing i'd do upon

entering the store, would be

to look for a bench

to sit on

close to a woman's dressing

room.

her purse would be sitting

between my feet

as i read the book i brought along.

eventually

she'd come out from behind

the curtain

with a dress on,

spinning this way and that,

playing with her

hair for some reason.

so, she'd say.

what do you think?

too long, too short, too

many colors,

does it say me?

it's you, i'd tell her.

perfect.

it brings out the color

in your eyes.

more dresses were to follow.

slacks and blouses too,

shoes.

eventually we'd leave

with nothing bought,

but with

the book almost finished.

his heartfelt prayer at dinner

he was a good boy,

a tall

boy,

out of college,

handsome,

a Catholic who actually

attended mass

each Sunday.

he came over for dinner

one night

and proceeded to take

on the task of

saying grace.

we all sat at the dinner

table

with hands folded

and eyes down

as he proceeded with

his prayer.

he offered up

the usual words of thanks,

the standard

rote prayer,

but then strayed off course

petitioning God

to help the people

in Africa

and Asia,

wandering into the hills

of Appalachia.

bless the homeless and sick,

the disenfranchised,

etc.

i opened one eye at him

to take a look,

wondering how

long this prayer would

go on.

i stared at the steak on

my plate

going cold. the potatoes

beginning to harden.

i wanted to pray that this prayer

would end,

but didn't,

and then after reminding God

about the measle

outbreak,

and with some hesitation,

he said,

and dear Lord,

forgive me for what

happened with

me and Becky last night

at the drive-in.

amen.

rare happy endings

some lives,

not all, but some are short

and brief snippets

of life

on earth.

call them haikus

or poems,

sonnets perhaps, 

maybe songs, while

others survive

enough days to become 

a short story,

a novella,

neat and compact

though not very long,

but then there are those

that become

a novel.

a thick tome of pages

full of words and deeds,

love

and death, etc. etc.

but one wonders

what is the plot

of those lives,

their theme,

what is the rising

and falling of the story,

what is

the climax.

is there a hero, a villain?

is there a denouement?

do things come together

in the end

to make

a lick of sense?

is the resolution satisfying?

rarely.

will the world run out of chickens?

as we sit at a picnic

table

near the airport,

at a Popeye's chicken

establishment,

i ask her,

will the world ever run out of chickens?

what?

she says,

as she cuts into a chicken

breast with

her plastic knife,

delicately as women

are prone to do

when cutting

into meat.

she has the four-inch square

of a napkin

on her lap.

what are you talking about?

she asks again.

chickens,

i tell her.

waving the drumstick

in my hand

to emphasize the question.

what would happen

if there were

no more chickens?

i wait until a plane passes

by overhead,

then continue on.

what would we eat,

that's cheap

and plentiful, and available

twenty-four seven

down the street,

plucked and cut up,

baked or

fried?

i don't know, she says.

do you want my

skin?

it's very crunchy. quite

spicy too.

one card fits all

i beat

the system, much to Hallmarks

chagrin.

i invent a card

that you send on the first day

of every year.

on it,

it says everything you need

to say

throughout the coming months.

you're covered for

the whole year,

guilt free.

merry Christmas,

happy birthday,

happy fourth of July,

happy Thanksgiving,

happy Memorial day,

happy President's day,

Columbus day,

Veterans day,

Groundhog day,

Arbor day,

and Valentine's day.

happy anniversary,

get well soon,

sorry for your loss.

congratulations on the birth

of your child,

your marriage,

your graduation,

your new house or job.

signed,

affectionately yours,

best wishes,

see you soon,

take care,

yours truly,

with love.

waiting for the governor to call

we may never

know

what it feels like to be standing

on the gallows

with a rope

around our

neck,

the trap door loose

beneath our

feet.

but standing at the altar

about to say

i do,

comes close.

a peculiar gift

funny

how you know things

that you

don't really know.

it's intuition,

an other worldly

attribute

you have,

handed down by

your mother,

who knew

before she knew

what was about

to go down.

it's a peculiar

gift,

but handy to have.

sorry i said i'm sorry

i tell her i'm

sorry,

she says, i'm sorry too.

really, i ask,

what are you sorry for.

she looks at me

wide eyed

and says,

i just said it because you

said it.

but, i say,

what exactly are you sorry

for, come on,

be specific.

i have time, i have

all day.

you go first, she says,

then it's my turn

if i can think

of anything.

Safeway has fish now

i shouldn't do it,

but i yell

out to the people standing

at the side of the lake

fishing,

and inform them that Safeway

has fish now,

caught and fileted,

on ice

or frozen.

all kinds.

trout, cod, monkfish

even Chilean seabass.

no need to stand there

all day with your

fishing rods,

casting out

your little worms.

they don't seem to like

me

and give me the one

finger wave.

the local camper deluxe

she's an expert camper.

she has the tent,

the sleeping bags,

the portable

propane

stove,

the battery powered lanterns,

the special bag to keep

things cold.

she has dinner ware

and cutlery,

bug spray

and snake repellant.

she's wearing a plaid

shirt and a doo rag

around her head,

she's in her hiking boots

and cargo pants.

she has a bag of marshmallows

and plant based

hot dogs.

she knows how to build

a fire,

and to make bird calls.

she has a hatchet and a knife,

a whistle

to scare away

the wildlife.

at night she'll tell stories

around the campfire

and break out her guitar

to sing

a Joan Baez song.

we're a half mile from home,

but it's wonderful

thing.

my goal for today

my goal

for today is to open

up

this jar

of olives.

i know i can do it.

i've done

it before

with jars

of pickles. peanut

butter,

strawberry jam.

i have the strength,

the torque

in my wrist to do so.

but if all

else fails, the tapping,

the hot water,

the cold,

there's a butter knife

in the drawer

to help.

the calm water

don't let

the calm water fool you.

don't trust it.

the placid

blue holding clouds

and rays

of sunlight.

don't dare

dive in

and try to swim across

to the other side.

beware.

take care.

i've warned you.

the seven year itch

my friend of forty

years, Joe,

calls me and wants to know 

if i still have

a guest room

with an empty bed.

my wife

wants me out,

he tells me.

she says, it's over. we're done.

all we do is fight

and argue

over the smallest things.

i think she has 

what they call the seven

year itch.

i've been sleeping

on the couch

for i don't know how long.

i just need a month

to get my act

together,

stop drinking and smoking,

stop doing so many drugs,

get a job, save some money,

buy a car,

and get back out

on my own.

maybe a few months,

six at the most, a year, tops.

do you mind

if i stay

at your house?

the lidocaine blues

i stare

at my knee. i rub it,

i twist the leg

around,

straighten it out,

flex,

and fold it

back

with my foot on the ground.

i wonder how many

more years

i can get out

of it

after fifty years of

pounding

on basketball courts,

and running around.

i'd like to leave this

earth

with all my

original parts,

i tell the doctor,

which makes him smile

and say,

it's good to have a goal

like that.

then he pushes the needle

of cortisone

all the way in,

the lidocaine making me howl.

just passing through

i feel better when

i go

to church.

St. Raymond's.

just driving through the parking

lot and slowing

down

as i pass the grotto and statue

of Mary.

it makes me feel better.

not forgiven

necessarily, but close

to it.

and if i park for a while,

i feel even

better knowing

that

i'm that close to going in.

no one to blame it on

i see the trail

of me,

the drips

and crumbs,

the cups and plates

left behind,

as i go through the day

into the night.

newspapers

and magazines,

wrappers,

a bowl of grapes

off the vine.

i'll get to it all

at some point.

i'll take out

the broom, the rag,

the vacuum

and get busy,

but without a visitor

on the schedule,

i'm good with it

for now,

i'm fine.

a little dab will do you

just a trim,

i used to the tell the barber

when i sat

in his big

leather

chair that swiveled

about.

just a trim, please,

but do something

about the cowlick.

and by the way

my part is on the left

not right,

and i like a little

wave in front

when you get the Bryl Creme

out.

it's so much

easier now, i think, as

i drag

the razor

around.

my robot is on order

i think

that maybe having a personal

robot

could be a bad idea.

they would makes us even

more lazier

than we already are.

why get up

from the couch, when

the meal

is made,

the dishes done,

the wash

folded and put away.

they could answer the door

and tell

the Fuller Brush Man

that we don't need

anything today.

why pick up

a book

when they can read one

to us without turning a page.

they could

tuck us in at night,

say prayer

for us.

they could mow the lawn,

trim the hedges.

we could send them to

work to do

our jobs,

perhaps, maybe they

could even write us

some poems, as they

keep our house in order.

i think i've changed my mind

on having a robot.

it might be swell

as long as

we keep them charged

and oiled,

and away from water.

his childhood

did he dream

of his childhood in Halifax.

the farm.

his dog.

the one room

school house with a wood

stove.

the blonde fields,

the harsh

blue of the sound.

did he hear

the whistle of trains,

the cry

of gulls,

the ships with their freight

crawling by.

did he taste

the salt of the sea

in his mouth,

the succulence

of shellfish.

did he grieve, did he

dream of any of it,

or all?

they are all aliens

i loved

the twilight zone,

the outer limits,

the eerie

twists and turns,

the dark plots,

the surprise ending

when the masks

come off

and your wife

and children are all

aliens.

back to bed

that's some rain

coming down,

she says

to me, as we stand at the big

window

staring out.

that little stream

is a river now.

look how dark it is,

those black

clouds.

what do we do now?

back to bed?

sure.

the ex-patriots from tv land

they move

to England or Ireland

to escape

the politics

of their home country,

they run to maybe Sweden

or Finland,

but hardly ever

to Cuba

or Russia, or anywhere

in the middle east

or Africa.

they have the money

to live anywhere

as they flee the political

landscape that

conflicts with theirs.

funny how it works like that.

will they be missed?

not at all.

who?

my mother, my phone

my phone

is my mother now.

reminding me

of things i need to do.

appointments i need to make.

telling me

it's time

to restart

and have a new security

update.

there are apps

we need to put to sleep.

temporary

files you need to delete.

it's time

to clean up your room,

and eat

your vegetables, i want

you to clean your

plate,

now go brush

your teeth,

it's time to eat.

don't talk with your mouth

full,

sit up straight.

taking the doctor's advice

i see my

doctor out on the golf course,

smoking

a cigarette

and drinking a beer between

drives

and putts.

he's eating

a hoagie

from the pub,

there's mayonnaise

on his face

and

his belly hangs over his

striped

polo shirt, his knees

bent from

the weight.

he sees me and waves,

comes over

to tell me

that i should put some

sunscreen on.

the sun is really hot

this time

of day.

finding yourself

i see my

face

on the side of a milk carton

from years ago,

when i ran away

from home.

if you

see this person,

dial this number, the side

says.

i call it up.

hey, i tell them.

it's me.

i found myself.

did they ever even look

for me?

well,

i'm free, i'm okay.

where can i collect

my reward?

please tell my family

that

i'm no longer hard

to reach.

but it doesn't last

why

did the tall handsome

boy

in school

always get his way,

why did

the bosomy

girl

with blonde curls

and blue

eyes

become the queen

of the prom?

and us,

marching

onward with our books,

remained faceless,

forever

lost in the shade.

only the caught say let's move forward

my son after

eating

all the cookies in the bag,

with chocolate

on his face,

is caught red handed,

his belly

full,

his body trembling with

sugar,

licking crumbs

from the bag,

tells me,

okay, okay, you caught me.

can't we move on

from this Dad?

can't we

move forward.

we all make mistakes.

let's turn the page.

how to be a politician

they have

to have a secret life,

a life

of manipulation and lies,

black

or white.

they have to put a smile

on

the worst of times,

a good coat

of paint

to cover up

what ain't.

there is no other way to

get the votes,

and stay in power,

than to pretend

to be who you aren't,

to be a saint.

watching the river flow by

it truly

is entertaining these days,

the news,

the protests out

on the street,

the marches and parades.

all these wild colorful

characters

in the flesh, not on Disney.

sometimes

i'll pack a nice

picnic lunch and a folding

chair, and find a shady

tree to watch

the show go by.

occasionally i'll bring

a blanket

so that if i get drowsy,

and there are no drums,

or megaphones,

or sirens

from the cops, i'll take

a cat nap

and close my eyes.

change between the cushions

when i hear

that familiar dinging of the ice-cream

truck

outside,

a familiar chiming sound,

out of tune,

and the screaming

of kids

running out of the houses

to buy a nutty buddy,

a popsicle, or creamsicle,

or a caramel ice cream bar,

i run over to the couch

to dig

between the cushions for

fifteen cents.

old habits are hard to break.

the hidden room

it's good

to have a trap door,

a back

door,

a shelf of books

that slides

away

at the lifting of a lamp

shade.

you need a hidden

passageway

in this life to get survive.

a hidden

staircase,

a place where no one

can find you,

an attic, a loft, a cellar,

a good place to hide.

crashing into the Brooklyn Bridge

it's a ceremonial

ship

from another country,

waving its enormous flag,

that loses its power and drifts

backwards

into the Brooklyn Bridge.

throwing sailors

off the masts where the men

are strangely

waving and standing,

in no hurry to get off

before the crash.

hopefully they don't

have a ceremonial air force too

coming to visit.

spending money

it was an old

lawn

mower.

rusted,

and worn, the blades

dulled

by years

of mowing the tall

weeds,

the wet grass.

and yet it started

with a pull

of the rope,

it growled then

choked out a belly

full of blue

smoke,

then away we went.

across the neighbor

hood,

a gallon of gas,

a rake,

a bag

and by days end

a pocket full of money

to spend.

do i miss you?

do i miss

you?

the smell of you, the sight

of you,

the voice

of you.

do i miss what we had.

the snuggling

at night,

the games we played,

the way

you greeted me at the door,

all love

and kisses

as your tail wagged.

of course i do.

your leash and collar,

your tag

still hang on the hook

by the door.

your bowl

is still on the floor.

finding a spot on the beach

i surrender

to the years, i throw

up

the white flag

and let

out a sigh of relief.

the battle is

over,

the war neither won

or lost,

it just ended.

where should i sit

this day

on the beach?

my first hot yoga class

i sign up

for a hot yoga class

down at the community center.

it's more of

an effort to meet new women,

some limber

and flexible ladies,

and less

about getting in shape.

i'm in my

new yoga pants,

a combination of spandex

and cotton

with a polyester blend,

but a little

tight

in the wrong places,

if you know what i mean.

i'm carrying my rolled up

mat and have 

a red white and blue

head band on.

i take a long sip from my

personal water bottle,

as i find a space in the back.

it concerns me

that there are no windows

open, and no fans.

an hour later

i wake up in ambulance

with an IV

in my arm.

and a brace around my

neck,

i've been informed

that they won't me back.

surprised when i saw her mug shot

she was one of those

take

your shoes

off before you come into the house

kind of people.

well mannered,

well

educated, with good morals,

and values.

a good citizen

to boot.

not once did i ever see

spinach between her teeth.

she voted whenever there was

an election

to be had.

she exercised

and ate well. a vegetarian,

i suppose.

she had two cats,

and one

dog.

she went to church.

she danced and sang in the choir.

so it surprised me

when i saw in the paper

that she robbed

a liquor store

and was involved in a high

speed chase

down the boulevard.

who has time for this nonsense

i can't imagine,

my mother or father, taking

the time out

of their busy lives

to go

protest for some political

reason.

there were babies

to tend to.

doctor's appointments.

yards to mow,

children to play with

and help

with their homework,

tying their

shoes

and brushing their hair.

there were birthdays

and cakes

to be made. 

balloons to be blown,

shopping

to be done,

clothes to wash,

meals to be cooked.

diapers to be changed.

who had time to be in

a protest parade or to

tie themselves

to the white house gate?

they had no time

for such charades.

whatever it was i was talking about

in the middle

of the conversation, i get distracted

by a fly

in the room,

buzzing

around the light, then

towards

the window.

fat and black,

full of sound,

with neon greens

speckled in

somehow.

i lose my train of thought.

whatever it was

i was talking about was

probably

gibberish to begin with.

it's all about the fly now

and opening the window

to shoo him out.

they are waiting patiently

the headlights

shining

into the woods, catch

the eyes

of animals,

so many

lurking on the edge.

the glimmer

of their

small mirrors

reflect back,

they are

waiting

patiently for you

to go in.

it's trash night after all.

this doesn't mean i'm a good person

i don't

eat the last slice of cake,

because

i know she

might want it.

it doesn't mean

i'm a good person.

it just means,

that i hope she'll say

no, that's okay,

you have it.

and then

hopefully, at the very least,

we'll cut it down

the middle

and share.

a simple plan

there is a simple

formula.

a tried and true

method

of living well

and long.

drink water

and eat whole foods,

push away the sugar

and tobacco

the alcohol.

exercise and sleep well.

find love

where you can find it.

don't hurt others,

and don't be hurt.

pray often.

aging badly

the old men,

the rock and rollers,

the actors,

the washed up

and nearly

forgotten stars of the past,

like turtles

come out of their shells

and squeal

and bash,

they are aging

badly,

showing their true colors,

wanting once more

to be relevant.

but they lose more and more

followers

with each

bizarre and deranged

rant.

my early morning apology

before i sit

down in the back yard

in the rising sun

on the iron

chair

next to the black iron

table,

i apologize to the spiders

who scramble

at my noise.

i use

an arm

and a magazine

to unstring

their hard work.

unraveling

the gossamer threads.

how busy they've been

all night

into the morning,

with their webs.

i'm sorry, i tell them.

i truly am, then sit.

and then there's tomorrow

and there's tomorrow

after

all of this ends,

whatever this

is.

when work stops,

when

friends move away,

when

situations change,

parents

dying,

pets grown old.

and then there's tomorrow

to deal with.

and whatever

comes next

our way.

how far is too far

the fright of

it,

the cold

unwelcome ocean

with it's long

dark

arms

and froth.

full of salt and sand,

and

strange

things below,

that each foot finds,

when

wading out,

away from land.

how far is too far?

another foot

another

yard,

another step before

we drown.

seashells in the sand

as i walk along

the beach

i keep seeing seashells

aligned

with cryptic political

messages

on who to vote for,

who to love

who to hate.

children at play?

old men

or women with nothing

better to do

on a Saturday.

mermaids,

perhaps, rising from

the sea

being playful.

the accidental wedding

we stumble

onto

a wedding in St. Patrick's

Cathedral.

we're not part

of it,

and yet we are, tourists

sitting on the far

side

with a hundred others.

the music plays,

the singing

echoes up and

through the marble

walls.

the bride at last arrives

walking slowly

up the center aisle.

a vision in white.

the groom

at the altar, 

standing nervously,

waiting for

his life

as it is to end,

for another life to begin.

we waiting on luck

we wait

on so much, for buses

to come,

for water

to boil,

for the rain to stop,

for Friday to

arrive

at last.

we're always waiting

for something

or someone.

we look out

the window for the

mailman's

truck,

for the sun

to come up.

we wait on the news,

whether good or bad.

we wait

for good luck.

keeping the trains on time

we keep

track of mundane things.

us humanoid

people.

we remember trash

on Thursday,

the clocks

being changed.

turning the water

off in winter,

and back on

in spring.

we set alarms to rise.

after awhile we know

our place

in this world,

we know 

what our duties are

to keep the trains

on time.

we remember

when to change a filter

in the house,

the oil

in the car.

the cleaning of our

teeth

each six months

without fail.

we smell the milk

to see if

it's sour. we read labels

to see if that

can of beans 

has expired?

monkey business

i fall in love

with a girl who speaks no English.

she speaks

French

and German,

Italian,

but not a word

of English.

but we hit it off.

thankfully i've seen

the documentary with

Jane Goodall

and KoKo the gorilla.

i know

how to signal

for thirst or food,

for sleep,

and for fooling around

later.

i'm all over this monkey

business

without uttering

a sound.

in need of ear plugs

there are some noises that

bother you

more than others,

a barking dog,

all night,

outside,

a baby crying on the bus.

someone chewing

their food loudly

at the table beside you.

Yoko Ono's

music.

a solid eight hours coming

nothing like a hard

at work,

a physical day

to let you

know that tonight

you'll sleep good,

no tossing and turning,

no worry

or concerns to bother you.

you'll fall into the bed

and like rock

won't move

for the next eight hours.

there'll be

no need to read a book

or watch a show,

or check your phone,

you'll just lie

there, close your eyes

and be gone.

misapropitation of funds

i remember

those

days, of going to the jewelry

shop

and examining what

fine jewel i could buy

for my

sweetheart

to smooth things over,

to win her

back, or to seal the deal

on a lifetime

of walking on eggshells.

what long hours

i would spend, telling

the clerk

to take out a ring

from under the glass,

or a bracelet,

a necklace,

or a watch.

then checking the price

on the tiny tag,

was this one worth it?

should i swipe

the card

to win her back?

just for awhile

there are birds

in the soffit.

the vents have fallen out

and now

a variety of birds

have made

their homes

in the small round

holes

in the wood attached

to my house.

they're noisy in their

caring of

the young, flying in

worms

and assorted crumbs.

i hear the small chirping

of mouths

being fed.

it won't be long though

until they're grown,

and gone,

flying 

off to their own world

as children

are prone to do. but

hopefully,

another spring will come.

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.