no parking ever

there's the one

store on the corner that

is here

today and gone

tomorrow.

a chicken place,

then a Chinese restaurant,

a massage parlor,

a bookstore,

a nail salon. 

then mattresses for sale.

three or four months

later and they're

taking the sign down

and covering the window

with paper,

and yet.

it never ends.

nobody does the research

on this spot.

they haven't read the signs

outside the door

saying

no parking everyday

of the week,

and towing on weekends.

the evolved man

well trained

he

was,

it took long, but at last

he admitted

that he had

evolved.

no longer did he

walk

through the house

with muddy

boots, or put his feet

upon

the coffee table.

he spoke when spoken

to, and not

for too long.

he went to marches

with her,

wore a pink hat,

agreed

to agree with whatever

she believed in

or said.

he

watched what she wanted

to watch on

tv.

she trained him well,

and now,

he tells me sadly

over his fifth beer,

the marriage will last.

go get em champ

i miss

combing my hair,

like i did when i was twelve.

a thick shock

of blonde, brown hair,

shampooing it,

brushing it,

parting it on the left side,

while

pressing down the cowlick.

i'd stand in the bathroom,

with three sisters

banging on the door,

staring into the mirror,

while holding another

mirror

to see how wonderful it

all looked.

from side to side.

the Ricky Nelson wave in the front,

just so, held up by a little

dab will do you.

i miss the barbershop,

the small

talk,

the smell of it all,

the girly magazines on the rack.

the clippers and scissors

humming

and clipping away, and me

telling the man,

with Yogi Berra arms,

just a little off the top,

please,

and then the spin

of the chair around to

view myself in the big

long mirror.

the dusting of sweet powder,

and splash

of after shave.

go get em champ, 

Luigi would say.

so what is it today?

i find

her in the dark room

on the floor,

rocking

back and forth,

mumbling incoherently,

arms

around herself,

legs

bundled up like

long thin

cords.

her eyes smeared

with black,

her lips trembling.

her vibrating

beside her.

i turn the light on

and ask,

so what is it today?

should i set the table

for two,

or no, just me again?

hardly working

there are men

and women too who live

by their wits,

media hounds,

television

gurus.

politicians

paper tigers writing

op-eds,

in silk suits,

reporting on the news.

editorials

and weather.

few have

actually worked at

anything.

driven a nail,

or mopped a floor,

climbed upon a roof

to repair a shingle.

their hands are as soft

as silk,

their skin

like butter.

they hardly age it seems.

the make up

artist

makes sure of that.

have i gone too far

as you

tip toe out into the ocean,

each wave

lapping

further and higher

over you

as you bob

like a cork.

the water colder

with each hop of foot,

you then

must decide is this

far enough,

or do i keep going and perhaps

never make

it back to shore.

slow motion

you've slowed down

in many

ways,

not as quick of foot as you

once were.

there is less

pulling you out the door,

or making you

rush to the phone.

no longer do you wait

for the mailman

to bring you

post.

tomorrow is when you'll

get things

done.

chicken and dumplings

she tempts

me over the phone with chicken and dumplings.

she describes

them

as soft potato clouds

of flour

and gravy

that melt in your mouth,

by fork or spoon,

the chicken

falling like feathers

off the bone.

she hears the pounding of my

heart over

the phone,

my heavy breathing.

she knows me oh so well.

i'm doomed.

fantabulous

i don't think i've ever used

the word

fantastic,

or fabulous when describing

an event

or show,

or movie, or party that

i've been to,

or even

a concert or wedding,

or funeral,

unless i used them

sarcastically.

they are perfect words

for such use.

to die for is another phrase

that fits

the mood.

i hear you in there

i stare

at the dripping faucet

in the shower

and say,

why?

what is your problem?

but get

no reply.

i could get a wrench

and other

assorted

tools

and have a go at it.

but i don't.

i pull the shower curtain

tight,

and close

the door instead.

upon reading her sex poem

i blushed

at her sex poem

as she read,

a graphic

piece

for the class.

my face

flushed pink,

as it often was a ten year

old,

when embarrassed,

shy i was.

still am,

i suppose

despite everything

you've heard

or known.

rowing slowly away

it was a long

summer.

we complained about the heat

mostly.

but the flies

too

and the grey rain

when storms blew in

over the water.

we weren't happy.

we were

bored with each other.

with the food,

the fishing rods

the rented canoes.

we were done with

the smell of mildew,

with our lives,

who we had become,

where were in life.

ten years of this,

and yet,

here we were again

on the shore of a lake

in a cottage

for three months.

sometimes the crickets

were thunderous

at night.

we would, of course,

tell everyone when we got

home

of the fun.

the last act

the magician,

aging,

with silver hair

and mustache, 

a top hat on

his head, no longer

holding a rabbit,

is bent over with

a saw in hand.

he's well

beyond his years,

but now failing

at his craft.

sadly he's cut

his wife in half.

condensation

the condensation

on the pane

is a fine canvas

to draw

a heart upon with

an arrow through it.

i know it's temporary.

i'm not fooled

easily anymore,

it always is.

just one stupid thing will do it

as kids, once

the ballgame was over,

we'd sit

on the front stoop and drink

our sodas

and wonder what it was

we could invent

to make us famous and rich.

we laughed at

things like the hoola hoop,

slinkies,

chia pets,

and pet rocks.

silly putty,

cabbage patch dolls,

not to mention ant farms,

and yo yo's.

there had to be some

stupid thing

not yet thought of

that we could invent

and make a bazillion dollars on.

even now when we talk

about it,

fifty years later,

we still don't have a single

idea in our head.

please go on, tell me more

i use to pretend that i cared

about what she

was going on about,

but she

finally figured

me out

and knew that i was faking

an inkling

of interest.

even when i asked

follow up questions,

making her repeat herself

over again.

she saw right through me,

the plate glass window

that i was, slowly cracking.

tracking my package

i'm tracking a package,

not me,

but my phone is with text

messages

and e mails.

i'm being told where the box

is with

the return label

on it.

there's a map attached

showing me with a red dot

where it's going,

where it's been.

there's an estimated time

of arrival too.

it fills up the hour as i once

more sit and wait my turn

at the DMV.

minimum wage

she's bored.

this clerk, this almost

beautiful

young

blonde clerk.

she sighs as she makes

change.

places your things

into a bag

and says,

thank you come again.

she thought

she'd be discovered

by now.

be somebody,

other than standing here

for minimum wage,

wearing a blue

apron

and a frown.

soon she thinks,

soon.

word will get out.

the blue China bowl

at the end

of the day, i stand

at the dresser

and empty my pockets.

what have we here?

what debris

have i taken home with me.

what coins,

what nails and screws,

what pieces of lint?

paper clips,

ink pens.

what notes to myself

have i folded

to be read later?

i empty it all into the blue

China bowl,

a gift i never gave,

something i bought on a trip

to Mexico.

carried home

i knew

where her extra key was,

hanging

on a nail

in the shed

full of cobwebs

and rakes,

her rusted bike.

but it was

too late,

the police had already

broken a window

to enter and

find

her passed away,

in bed, though

reaching up her arms

as if to be lifted

and carried

home,

perhaps she was.

The Epstein Files

because we have no lives to speak of,

we are waiting

breathlessly

with a nervous tick in our eye,

for the Epstein files,

we need to know

what this dead man did.

we have to know, we can't go on

unless we know

more sordid details.

how can we possibly sleep at night?

we need names and places,

we need film, pictures,

documents, receipts.

we need a list of victims

and perpetrators.

tell us everything.

and while you're at it, how

about those Kennedy files,

both of them,

and the UFO files,

the P. Diddy files,

the Covid files,

the Jimmy Hoffa files,

the Marilyn Monroe files,

the moon landing files.

we need to know where the bodies

are buried.

we need to know who done it,

who's guilty.

we need to know who to shame

and drag through the streets.

please Mr. government, 

give us what we need.

we're babies in a crib.

we need transparency.

don't make us beg, please. please.

please.

we can't sleep.

Pest Control

the yellow van

pulls up

in front of my house and a large

man

with black rimmed

glasses

climbs out.

there's a picture on the van

of an insect

being squashed under

a boot.

the eyes of the cartoon bug are

ex 'ed out.

Pest Control,

the name says.

we kill them all so that you

don't have to.

he carries up

the sidewalk a cannister

of spray

with a hose,

and says,

so, whereabouts?

it's ants, i tell him.

harmless, i suppose, but

i see a line

of them in the morning

marching in the kitchen,

carrying crumbs out.

he salutes me as if a private

going into battle

then comes in,

he circles the house, spraying,

with his mask

pulled tightly down.

when he finishes, he hands me

a business card,

it's my wife's business, he says.

she cleans houses

by the hour.

a load of laundry

i set

my bag of laundry

on the floor

beside my boots and wait

for a washing machine

to free up.

i have a sack of quarters,

and a book

to read.

there's an older woman

filling up

one of the machines with

her clothes.

red blouses,

pink,

blue flowered summer

dresses.

torn jeans with rhinestones.

various shapes and sizes

of underwear,

some with ribbons attached

and bows.

the names of the week

embroidered in.

i try not to stare, but i do.

so much

being said,

by a load of laundry

and soap

going round and round.

the daughter walking by

the woman

that walks a beagle through

the neighborhood

every day

has a daughter who looks

just like her.

the spitting image

as they say.

curly red hair, 

less wide

perhaps,

but equally unfriendly.

with a plastic bag in hand

she stops to pick up

what her dog has done

in front of my house.

she sees me looking out

the window.

i wave, but i don't get

a wave back.

they're passing by again

it's a parade

going by in my dream.

no marching band,

no floats,

no music at all.

just them.

all of them.

their faces and bodies

turning to

me in the stands

to smile and say hello.

to wave as one does

with one's hands.

the oddest of times

you remember

your best friend at the oddest

of times.

the bench

at the park with two elderly

people

talking.

a sailor

on the street

in uniform.

the slant of a roof with

a ladder

against the house.

a paint

brush soaking

in soapy water.

a donut taken from a box.

his box of maps in the attic

it's a box

of maps, of an Atlas,

thick

with lines

and yellowed pages.

grids,

numbered.

road maps,

paper

maps,

folded and stuffed away,

for safe keeping.

circles of

coffee rings

browned on the thin sheets.

local

and state,

world maps.

some with ink stains

where he

drew his pen along blue

highways.

a compass

too.

stops along the way

to sleep

or eat.

places he didn't know,

places he knew.

those words you just said

so much

is so meaningless.

those words you just said.

this bump

on my leg, this cuticle

bleeding.

this itch,

this bee bite.

small injuries that will

fade away

given time

and ointment, and yet

in the moment

that's all i dwell

upon.

and yet i send another poem

i sneer

at the rejection letter from the New Yorker

magazine.

the tenth one

this year.

i put it in the waste

basket

where all the others go.

tonight

i'll make a fire in the back

yard,

and watch them burn.

who do they think they are?

these elite leftists

from Columbia and Harvard.

what do they

know?

planning ahead

we both

decide to eat the garlic

bread

and put onions

and blue

cheese on our salads.

anchovies too.

we're thinking ahead,

so that there won't

be a problem later

when we finally go to bed.

Fords and Chevrolets

often

friendships revolved around

a car

needing jumper

cables,

or being out of gas,

or a tire

gone flat.

you met and helped each

other out.

friends

were made this way.

hands were shook

in the rain,

in deep

snow

as you helped someone

attach to their

tires,

snow chains.

together you lifted the hoods

of cars,

and leaned into

the dark abyss

of a motor that wouldn't start

and adjusted

points,

or tightened

wires and belts.

you poured fluids

into spouts.

but then everyone bought

Hondas

and Toyotas

and it all ended.

her reflection

her face,

a familiar face,

reflecting in the store window.

me looking

out her looking

in.

she moves her hair

around her

shoulders,

applies

lipstick,

then move on.

love comes so quickly

and

departs too

soon at times.

sunshine on the roses

the blanket

pulled tight in the cold,

up to our chins,

a mythical protection

against

the wreck

of wind

against the shutters,

trombones

and

kettle drums

out of tune in the black

sky.

the clash of cymbals.

what's next?

will the river overflow,

will

we be submerged

and floating

violently towards

the ocean,

or will we survive and press

on as if

nothing

has happened when

morning comes,

with sunshine on the roses.

the cowboy years

my friend Clint, whose

real name is

Eugene

has taken up the personae

of a cowboy.

he used to work for Microsoft

designing Windows 3,

4, 6 and seven.

he wears a big

hat on his head,

and keeps his pants

up with a belt buckle

in the shape of Texas.

he squints a lot as if the sun

is perpetually in his eyes.

his boots are made

of crocodile skin.

he's sporting a mustache too.

he's never been on a horse,

or seen a horse

up close, let alone a chicken

or a cow.

he's never been to a rodeo,

or herded sheep,

or learned how to two step

or do the electric slide,

but when he sees you on

the street,

he tips his hat

and says howdy partner,

how's the missus?

nice day for a cattle drive,

ain't it?

yes, i tell him.

sure is, Eugene.

careful what you wish for

i used to be a believer

in lists.

writing out with pen and paper

things

to do,

things to accomplish

in the near or far

future.

dreams

and wishes.

i have saved all of these lists

and take them

out now and again

to remind myself of what

a fool i was,

and probably still am.

questioning the open bar

as she stood

at the altar

in a flowing red dress,

six months pregnant,

with the tattoo

of a dagger

on her neck

i wondered if

the decision to have

an open bar

was a good one,

with so many Harleys

parked out front.

future hall of famers

i see

the mob throwing rocks

on a nice

summer day

hitting cars.

mostly police cars.

they've put down their baskets

full of fruit

and vegetables.

some of them have incredible

arms,

major league

skills

at throwing the long

ball.

the rocks sail through

the air

with tremendous speed

and accuracy.

i wonder

if the scouts are watching

the daily news,

looking

for new players

for their teams.

just the thought of you

when i think

about lemons, 

or see them

at the store, i pucker,

just the thought of them,

or of unsweetened lemonade

makes

my cheeks

come together,

my lips too.

i push away.

i'm so easily influenced

in so many ways.

the orange sofa

i hear

the early truck backing

up diagonally

to move

the neighbors out.

i peek out

the window

and see a stroller going into

the dark

mouth of the door,

raised from the ramp.

a bed,

a dresser,

boxes. the ordinary

things

we accumulate over time.

mops and brooms,

books, a television.

an orange sofa

that takes two to carry in.

the movers

say little,

while the man and his wife,

his two

kids stand

nearby, thinking deeply

about something.

that worry free

with

more time behind me,

i dwell

on what was

more than what is to be.

faces

and names,

the blur

of calendar pages

flipping

in the wind.

the fun we had,

the kisses given,

the kisses received.

it seems impossible now

to have been

that worry free.

the blue sweat shirt

it was a hand

me down,

at twelve,

the blue sweatshirt,

torn

and worn,

faded,

washed so many times

over and over

and hung

out to dry on the line.

and yet

i wore it

all summer long into

winter.

it no longer fits,

but sometimes

i take it out of the bottom

drawer

to remember

when i was young.

do they bite?

not everyday,

but

some days, as i sit out back

in the overgrown

yard,

reading,

drinking coffee, i see a bug

i've never

seen before.

and say to myself, what

the hell

is that?

as they fly by,

or crawl upon

my leg.

some blue winged thing,

with green

eyes,

and yellow stripes.

little dragons

on the prowl.

what else

haven't i seen?

do they bite?

sanctuary housing

someone

breaks into your house.

you find them

on your couch, eating your

food.

helping themselves to a bowl

of cold

spaghetti,

but you're a kind person,

compassionate

and loving

so you let him stay.

the next night, his family

has moved in.

all seven of them.

they are eating, sleeping,

watching tv.

one is sick,

the other injured.

so you take them to the hospital

and pay

their bills

for medical treatment.

the younger girl has a baby,

then another,

she's a cat in heat.

you make bunk beds for all

of them.

you give them money

to live off,

credit cards. you let them

use your car.

they love you for your stupidity

as they drain

your bank accounts.

the next week

the yard is full of new

arrivals.

some of them are in gangs,

criminals

in their own country,

hiding from the law. but

the word has been passed,

your home is safe,

come one, come all.

they are on the roof, in the basement,

they are building

an addition

to your house.

they ask you to learn their

language,

as they play their music

and cook their food.

they raise their flag

over your roof.

they tell you that you that soon

you will have to move,

there isn't enough

room

any more for you.

the Joe Rogan interview with God

i see that God

is scheduled to be on the Joe Rogan

podcast,

sandwiched between

Rosie O'donell

in Ireland and the inventor

of the hula hoop,

and Joe

has asked

his audience

to send in questions that they

want him to ask.

He has limited time,

being God

and all. He has

so much to do, and yet

so much time

to do it in.

i write down my questions,

the obvious ones

of course,

what's the deal with the devil?

why is there evil?

what's heaven like?

how will the world end,

and when?

will it be fire, or ice?

oh, and what exactly is in

the Epstein files?

Ozempic?  

thumbs up, thumbs down?

the feeling is mutual

sometimes

you have nothing to say

anymore

about the world

at large.

absolutely

nothing.

your thoughts and words

are old.

worn out.

your tongue is tired.

your brain

hurts.

there's nothing new

to say.

so you sit there,

and say nothing.

there is no one you want

to persuade,

to bring them to your

side of the table,

and besides

that, there's no one

who will listen anyway,

but the feeling is mutual,

at last.

the yellow wind

with the thick

yellow

wind of pollen 

blowing off the trees,

coating

the chairs

and tables, i close the window

and sneeze,

i wheeze.

i cough and bend over

to catch

my breath.

a strange heaviness is

on my chest.

is the end near once more?

i find the inhaler,

give it a few shakes,

then squeeze. whew.

saved again.

i realize how much

i love

air and being able

to breathe.

i wish you were here

i find a spot

on the beach to make

my claim.

i dig the umbrella into

the sand,

roll out my

towel,

my wide sheet,

my cooler,

and then open up

my orange

chair.

i have a book a drink.

i'm facing

the ocean.

it's 11 a.m.

i wish you were here.

there's one

spot on my back

where i can't reach to

spread sunscreen.

cheap beer and fast cars

we loved

beer

for some reason when we were

young

dumb teens.

it went along

with fast cars

and girls, summers,

beaches

and shorts,

music

and concerts.

kegs and cans,

bottles.

a portable high

to socialize

with.

did we like it because

of the taste,

of course not,

connoisseurs of alcohol

we weren't.

basically we had no

money,

and it was cheap.

the best days

coming from

nothing,

you remember

what nothing was.

you remember

hunger

and thirst,

the thin mattress

on bed springs,

the airless

rooms,

the cold winters,

sleeping

just below a cracked

window.

you remember the dog

curled beside you.

the sun

coming through

the shadeless window.

the crow of a rooster.

your mother

in the kitchen making

instant coffee,

and pouring us powdered

milk.

and on good days,

a basket

of food from St. Thomas

More on the stoop.

just another day

for the most

part

few get any accolades,

any applause

for what they do.

it's just a long

day making

sure

everyone is fed

and the bills are paid.

they work,

they save. they do

the best

the can.

rarely a single clap

is given.

they don't need it 

or want

it though.

they drive or take the bus,

they walk when they have to,

or go down

into the subway.

they hardly complain.

they feel lucky and blessed

that they've survived

another day.

remember when they baked cookies and knit?

she's very

liberal, blue hair, nose

ring.

she goes

to all the protests,

screams

and yells, wears a mask,

a tin foil hat

and carries a sign

saying

everyone must go free

and burn

baby burn.

she goes both

ways, and answers to they

them and yippie kai yay.

don't get in her way,

or God forbid

wear a red hat,

she'll bite you, 

scratch your eyes out.

jiminy crickets,

grandmoms sure

are different these days.

a little dark angst is good

can you

be extremely happy

and write,

or paint,

content with your life,

can you

create anything of value

while

skipping

down the road, singing,

and dancing?

absent of dark

clouds

and angst,

perhaps,

but i imagine that it

won't last.

the carnival of faith

faith

is a strange animal.

full of it

one day,

and vague the next.

a thin hope you grip onto

as you ride

the rails

and scream.

it's a Ferris wheel,

a roller coaster,

a fun house

of emotions, tilting

life

this way and that.

even when you know

you should,

you forget sometimes

to pray.

the wringing of hands

what bothered me

so much

yesterday and the day before,

and the weeks

leading up,

is suddenly

nothing.

all that tossing and turning

wringing of

hands,

was for naught.

it's gone,

but of course a new problem

will arrive

soon.

in fact,  i hear a knock at

the door,

the ringing of a phone.

six hours later

why

are you so clingy now?

she said,

backing

away

as if i had bad breath

or the measles.

pushing me

with both hands

as i tried to kiss her.

we'd only been married

for six hours,

me, still in my

rented tuxedo, her in her

wedding dress.

maybe tonight then,

i asked her.

we'll see, she said.

but for now back off,

give me some room

i can't breathe.

the Iowa workshop

is this where

Flannery

lay down at the end of a long

day,

quiet

in her way,

typing at the small desk

by the window.

did she leave

anything behind,

in the closet,

under the bed, notes perhaps,

descriptions

of characters,

the Misfit and the grandmother

on the road

to where

the bodies would lie.

did she stare

out this same window,

adjusting her glasses,

and wonder

what would become of her,

of this world.

of her shortened life,

soon gone.

collected poems

i turn

to the back to where his new

poems

are printed.

and like all aging

athletes,

or anyone

with a craft, you wonder

has he slipped,

does he still have it.

can he sprint and catch

the arching ball

in centerfield?

sometimes

he makes the catch

and sometimes

he fails,

the poem falls

upon the wet

grass.

my second most favorite word

i say

maybe a lot, it may be

my second favorite

word

in the English language,

second

to no.

it's saying yes,

but

leaving room

for no.

it's nearly a perfect word

to use

from the moment

you wake up,

until the moment

you go to sleep.

do you want

to spend Christmas at my

mother's house

this year, she asks?

i ponder

the question with a finger

on my chin,

and tell her, we'll see,

maybe.

searching for a hobby

i need

a hobby that has no underlying

ambitions,

no hope

of ever going anywhere

with money

or fame.

something like whittling,

or playing

a harmonica

on the front porch,

or canning peaches,

or blueberries.

maybe painting by numbers,

or doing

puzzles and having

them laminated

before hanging them on

the wall.

perhaps i could glue sticks

to a canvas

like my friend Nancy

does,

and call it art.

i'm done with ambition

for a while.

she missed Jimmy a lot apparently

while making

love

she inadvertently called

me Jimmy

in the throes

of passion,

her last boyfriend's name,

but things

were going well, so i said

nothing,

and we continued

on.

i let it go.

finally

it ended with me

rolling away.

what's the matter

she said.

nothing, nothing at

all, but

i'm not Jimmy, i'm Joe.

two green rooms

she bought too much

green paint,

the shade

of a pear,

so we did another room in green,

the same

as the other

room down the hall.

her twin sister was coming

to live with her

at sixty-eight.

so it made sense,

in a way.

then she showed me a picture

of her and her sister

at six

then at sixteen, both dressed

the same exact way.

nothing changes, still,

it seems.

ketchup and eggs

i thought it was an Iowa

thing,

the way

she put ketchup on her eggs,

making a grid

of sorts

across the plate.

not unlike a tic tac toe

game.

i said nothing.

which i've learned over

a long life

involved with women,

is the best way to go with

this sort of thing.

turn the page

are we being

judgmental,

or just observational

when

pointing

out the obvious,

or less obvious in words

or voice?

perhaps both.

for better or worse,

but so what?

turn the page if you don't

like.

changing your ways

i discover

a new path down the stream,

through

the woods.

a longer

path.

i hold onto trees

and brush

as i make my way down.

stepping carefully

on the rocks.

i've never

been this way before.

i always

went around,

going the same way

year after

year.

perhaps there is hope

after all

for me.

dig me a hole

like

most creatures,

you need a nest, you

need a cave,

a hollow

in a tree,

a place to retreat to,

and rest.

you need a home.

you can't wander

the earth

forever and never

lie down.

every creature needs a hole

to burrow

into

when bad times unfold.

fixing the leaks

if only

there was a nozzle to turn

on the wall

below

the sink

to cut off the water

of hate.

to stop the flow of violence

and anger.

the dripping rage.

if only

there was a plumber

out there

to fix

the mentally unstable.

to use his

wrench

to fix

the crazy leaks.

that was a bad idea

they show

the ten mugshots of the ten

losers

who shot at the police,

in a fit of rage

and rebellion,

not happy with politics.

all pale

and ghoulish

with stringy long hair,

half beards,

some girls, some boys,

some

who knows what they are.

radicalized

by whom?

now sent to prison

in striped

uniforms.

about to stand in line

behind bars

for years,

for poorly cooked food.

close shaves

the nick

on the chin from shaving,

drawing

blood,

then cauterized with a snippet

of tissue,

will be with

you all day.

the cut will be pointed out

by friends

and strangers,

work mates.

asking,

what happened?

stand too close to the razor?

the writer's colony

famous

writers have slept here,

ate here.

even wrote here

at the small table in the corner.

poetry

and literature was

created here. 

things you've read to your

children, 

books on the shelves

of schools, but

look

deep enough

into the closets

and you'll find empty

bottles

of whiskey,

wine,

beer cans disposed.

condoms

and candles.

cigarettes. polaroid cameras

with the film

exposed.

during the long hours

of not writing,

there's little else

one can do, but get in trouble.

the wrong shade of red

i see

the condo board coming

up the street,

the coven

of witches

with clipboards

and torches.

i've painted my front door

the wrong

shade of red,

again.

and now, i must face

the music

from Judy and her friends,

already they've

begun to chant,

shame, shame, shame.

under contract again

the for sale

sign

has been up for three days,

already

under contract

the attached

sign says.

so quickly people come

and go

these days.

the truck backs up,

and they're

gone.

i never knew their names

despite five years

of living beside

each other,

though sometimes

we'd wave.

large enough for a foot to go in

it's not

good for business to express

your political

leanings.

you'll lose half your customers.

and the same

goes for singers

and actors,

celebrities in the news.

suddenly

you're only half as popular

as you used to be.

but it's hard

to keep your mouth shut

these days

except to put a foot in.

local melons

i run into

an old girlfriend at the grocery store.

she apologizes

for how she looks,

pushing back

her hair,

avoiding eye contact.

sorry for my appearance she says,

if i knew

i was going to run into

someone,

i would have been better

prepared.

she's wearing slippers

and pajamas

with slices of water melon

and fruit on

them.

which reminds me to go pick

one up

before i leave the store.

bye, she says.

i have to run.

take care.

a stale package of saltine crackers

when

it comes over you,

it's

unstoppable, that craving

for something

sweet.

you pull the chair

up to the cupboards

and begin

your search,

looking everywhere

for that one last candy

bar

from Halloween,

the single

candy corn, or candy cane

from Christmas.

nothing in

the ice box, no pudding

or cake,

there's nothing sweet

anywhere,

so you lie down

and tremble, you begin

to shake.

but then you remember

the blueberry jam,

and the saltine crackers.

you're saved.

we need to blame someone

it used to be

that people blamed God for

catastrophes,

how could He be

so mean,
so cruel

as to wipe out a hundred

people

in a fire

or flood.

what purpose was there

in snuffing

out so many lives,

so young?

doesn't He care about us?

we go to church,

we give to the poor,

we walk

the straight line with a moral

compass.

there's enough blame to go

around,

but no one points

to the sky anymore, though

it's not His

fault either.

it's just the way it is,

don't you know?

the dancer i grew up with

i remember

him

doing the twist in the basement

as we drank

cokes.

then two people

held up the limbo

bar,

and then

it was school dances,

then

clubs

and discos.

swing and ballroom.

he could dance them

all.

and at last

it was country

with his big cowboy

hat,

his new Texas boots

sliding

across the floor.

may he rest peace and be

dancing

forever in

the clouds.

nothing could save you

nothing

could stop you from going

where

you were about

to go.

not each memory,

each tree

you climbed,

each book you read,

each kite

you put into the sky,

each set of lips you kissed,

not the food

you ate,

the wine.

not the love of the ocean,

there was nothing

that could

save you.

not the doctor

at your bedside,

not the child you raised,

not your friends

or your wife.

not the sun out the window

warm

and bright.

no one

and nothing could stop

this train

you were on, 

about to arrive.

what was i thinking?

i like how

now, these days, you

can send

anything

back

through the mail.

pants, shirts, shoes.

save the box,

the bag,

put a sticker on it

and away it

goes.

no standing in line,

no explanation

as to why.

did it fit,

was the color wrong?

despite everything,

we're living in

simpler times.

is anyone home?

without

notice

my mother's friends

would drop

by

on a Sunday morning

after church

with a bag

of donuts,

for coffee

and gossip,

filling the room with smoke.

there'd be a knock

at the door,

or sometimes

they'd

just come in and yell

hey, Marie,

is anybody home?

the disappearing act

he was a people

person,

the glad hand on

your back,

the smile,

the joke,

the small talk.

he had an enormous

circle of

friends,

real and imaginary.

he had money.

he had charisma

and a shiny

car.

a shiny wife,

shiny children.

he was the golden child

from the start.

but all of it

a prison.

then he disappeared,

and we never

knew

the reason.

in five words or less

brevity

is

key when discussing

our future.

keep it

simple,

come to the point,

no need to embellish or

go and on

with your

story.

making point

after point.

i get it.

just tell me

how you really feel

in five words

or less.

business or pleasure

with my

one satchel of clothes,

i check into

a motel

on the dark side

of the interstate.

the neon light has

two letters

out.

fre -wif

it says in bright red

beside the word Vacancy.

there's an ancient

pay phone

and an ice machine

in the breezeway

and an old man smoking a cigarette.

he's sitting in a plastic chair

in front of the open door

to his room.

he seems to be deep

in thought about something.

are you here

for business or pleasure?

the young

man

behind the counter

asks.

i see a large welt on the side

of his long

neck,

that he keeps scratching.

mosquito bite, i imagine.

i guess pleasure,

i tell him.

but we'll see how the night

goes.

the A key

the A key

sticks.

it's annoying.

i shake

the keyboard and press

down

again and again

with my weary left

small finger

until it frees.

how will i go on like this?

can i live without the A

key,

doubtful.

the March escape

i knew,

and she knew.

it was an unspoken

truth

between

the two of us

as we slept

inches away.

it would take time

to free myself from those

chains,

those shackles,

to hack through

the bars,

then

a year at least

to dig a hole in the earth

and tunnel out.

i've kept the shovel,

just in case.

one stop along the highway

i'm rolling

on route 50 heading east

with the windows

down,

the pedal

to the floorboard,

the Beach Boys

playing loud,

and the ocean a mere

three hours

away

if i don't get pulled over

for speeding,

but i'll make

a stop

in Cambridge, of course,

just like i always do,

no different than

the first trip i made

when i was seventeen.

i've never been able

to pass by

a single Dairy Queen.

still not a member

do i need

a ten pack of steaks,

ten pounds

of ground

beef,

twenty pounds of potatoes,

four snow

tires

and a three pound

bag of string beans?

no.

so i don't join 
Costco or Sam's or whatever

other big stores

are out there.

i'm buying one tomato

these days,

one onion,

and a banana.

two wings and a chicken

leg. maybe

a single bagel with

everything.

dog saliva

she used

to let her dog lick her face,

her ears,

her nose,

her lips,

sometimes she'd bend

over to cuddle

with the pooch

and tongues

would touch. she'd laugh

and explain

to me how a dog's mouth

was sterile,

clean and germ free.

she said

there was nothing to worry

about no matter

where that dog's tongue

had been.

no matter what kind

of dead thing

it ate.

i never kissed

her again

after that, or licked the same

spoon or fork

that she used.

the breakup was hard

to explain.

maybe next year?

i stare

at the invite to the 4th of July

party

at Joe and Irene's house

across

the bridge.

a painful yearly thing.

they have a pool,

and three dogs,

a grill and a big

ice box

in the cellar that keeps

the beer cool.

they like to play charades

before

the fireworks begin.

but

it's July 7th now.

how should i respond?

sorry,

i couldn't make it,

maybe next year, but thanks,

just the same,

hope it was fun,

or maybe i can use

that old standby excuse,

i think your email

went straight to spam, or 

i was going to come,

but it looked like rain.

what's with the celery?

everyone

made salads back then,

in a big yellow bowl

chilled

in the fridge overnight

with

a thin stretch

of saran wrap

covering the top.

egg salad,

potato salad,

pasta salads. tossed

and garden

salads, each one

baffling us

with slices of celery

hidden within.

i can see my mother now

carrying

the bowl

to the picnic table,

as we devoured hot dogs.

she'd swat flies away

with her hand

while

two big wooden spoons

swung in her apron.

the blue egg bruise

i don't know

how i got this bruise

on my ribs,

a blue

egg turning green

and then,

i imagine

eventually 

a yellowish brown.

was it the door i bumped

into,

the corner of a wall.

did i fall up the stairs

again

and bang

into the rail. or was it

you again, mad

as a hornet,

your elbow hitting me

as you rushed

out the door?

the opposite of his love life

when i'd walk

through the commissary

with my father,

at 90,

him leaning onto the cart

as he slowly pushed it

down the aisles,

he'd tell me what to get off

the shelf.

i want the original oatmeal

he'd say,

not the instant,

the old fashion raison bread,

not the new

brand

or wheat,

whole milk, not skim.

Uncle Ben's rice,

plain with nothing added in.

Wonder bread

and bologna,

French's mustard.

Little Debbie cakes,

and Aunt Jemima syrup.

a dozen white eggs

and a square of scrapple,

original, not spicy.

when it came to eating,

he kept it simple,

uncomplicated,

the opposite of his love life.

i really don't care about any of that

i don't care

where

you went to school,

who your

mother or father was,

i don't

care if you have a trust

fund,

a nice house

or car,

a pool.

i don't care what kind

of work

you do either,

or who you were with

before me.

spare me

your box full of jewels.

i really don't care much

about any of that,

just be a good person,

and don't take me for

a fool.

for a crust of bread

i've had shovels

in my

hand, an ax,

a rake, a broom.

a hammer,

a chisel,

a screwdriver or two.

i've held heat

guns

and drills, power

saws,

and sanders, paint

brushes,

and nail guns,

broad knives, just to name

a few.

whatever it's taken

to get the job

done, i've done.

for a crust of bread there

was little i

wouldn't do.

summer street

when

the firemen arrived

to open

the hydrants on the street,

shooting water

high into the air,

we were in

summer heaven,

stripped to our

shorts

and bare feet,

then down to the corner

store for an ice

cold grape Ne-hi

found

deep inside the icy bin.

and yet

despite

nearly everything

that you

read or hear, or watch,

people

are still making

love and having

babies.

it does seem to go on,

doesn't it?

taking inventory of resources

i add

up all the money i have

to see how long i could survive

if i never

worked another day

in my life.

i go to the dryer first

for coins

and bills caught

in the lint trap, then to the couch,

lifting cushions

to see what might have

fallen in.

i shake loose all the pockets

of my clothes,

then there's the blue

bowl

on top of the refrigerator,

full of random

change.

out to the car i go,

between the seats, in the cup

holder,

a few bills tucked

away for emergencies,

finally the check book,

which i never

seem to balance, so i make

a wild guess.

i think i'm good for a few

more weeks,

at least, not counting on

inflation,

war, or some inevitable

catastrophe.

i see the wilderness in you

i see the wilderness

in you,

the high fields,

the brush

and tangle of thorns,

thickets and vines.

the old trees bending

about to fall

in the next wind.

i see the rain, the storms

in you. the dark

clouds above

as you brood.

i'm afraid of going further.

you have to get over that

was it ten years ago

that i said that?

the words that made you angry?

or was it five?

i don't remember now,

time

has slipped away so quicky.

i can barely

remember what i had

for lunch today,

let alone,

ten years ago.

remind me again, would you?

i'm sure you logged it

into your diary.

long lost letters

we used to write letters.

handwritten

letters, expressing love,

or joy,

perhaps concerns we have

with each other.

mending a fence

now broken.

with ink pen in hand,

we'd stare at the sheet of

blank white paper

and ponder

what to say.

hopefully in an eloquent

manner.

we look out the window

until we find the words,

then begin.

today, though we send

and emoji

with a smile or a frown

on its yellow face.

how would you like your meat sliced?

the girl

in a hair net

and apron,

working the deli department

at the grocery store,

cutting

meat,

and scooping coleslaw

into cups,

yells out to a young man

walking

by with a bucket

of grey water 

and a wet mop,

hey Jimmy, she says.

do me a favor, would you?

could you take care

of  the toilets

that are backed up

in the rest rooms?

then she asks me 

how i'd like my Virginia baked

ham sliced,

thick or thin?

the line behind me suddenly

disperses.

you have no choice in this matter

every morning,

i get the notice that windows 10

will end

soon.

i will no longer be able

to go onto the internet

safely.

my computer is too old

and flabby

to update, so

my only choice is to buy

a new one.

it reminds me of ex-wife

number two,

every morning threatening

me to straighten up

and fly right,

obey her every command

or there would

be hell to pay.

she gave me no choice but

to find a new one.

expensive, but i'm safe,

at least for now,

before the next version comes out.

it's the end of the world, oh my

i see my

neighbor sitting on her porch crying.

what's wrong

i ask her.

what's the matter.

everything,

she says,

have you read the big bill that was

just passed

in congress.

it's the end of the world

as we know it.

children

will die in the streets,

old people,

young people,

people of color, even the whites.

they have taken away

all our rights,

we'll be shipped off into

concentration camps

surrounded by alligators

and pythons.

no longer

will we have 

access to food or air,

or water,

let alone blue hair dye.

oh my,

i tell her.

do you have a copy of the bill?

i'd like to read it.

no, she says,

wiping her eyes with her

rainbow flag.

but i heard about it on CNN,

MSNBC,

ABC, NBC, CBS, NPR, PBS

and online.

they are all telling the truth,

right?

why would they lie?

those other 80 million people

who love it can't be

right, right?

the long happy stretch in the middle

when born

you wouldn't survive

without a full

time nurse, which means

mother

or father, or someone

tending to your basic needs.

and then

the early years

arrive where you need

assisted

living,

not quite ready

to leave the nest.

but soon

you begin your long stretch

of independent living,

depending on

almost no one, not even

a husband

or wife.

eventually though

you circle back

to assisted living,

and then at last, full care.

you have arrived once more

to the spoon feeding

oatmeal years.

savor the middle,

it doesn't get any better

than that.

4th of July preparations

i see

the firetrucks

and paramedics

lined up

on the streets.

health workers.

they are ready to treat the burn

wounds from

those falling Roman candles,

rockets

and sparklers.

they are prepared to

put the fires out,

as the celebration

begins.

they have stomach

pumps

ready for those overdosing

on drugs

and alcohol,

and for those who overeat.

their bellies

bursting with hot

dogs

and watermelon,

ice cream and pickles.

they have gallons of Neosporin

ready,

bandages and gauze.

Imodium

and psychologists to help

them

after the smokey fog

blows away.

some say Thomas Jefferson

is rolling in

his grave.

perhaps so.

what about cats?

like

children used to do,

asking

their parents an endless list

of questions,

we type

into

our computers,

why is the sky blue,

where is God

exactly.

why are there no dinosaurs

at the zoo.

why is there evil?

do dogs have

feelings

too?

what about cats?

needing a mulligan

who

doesn't dislike the cards

they're dealt with

at some point.

disappointed with their lot

in life,

the parents they had,

the place

they grew up in, the school,

that motely group

of friends,

they've found.

their height and weight,

or lack

thereof.

who doesn't want to start

over,

and begin again with this thing

called life.

pretending at life

children see

everything their elders do,

their mothers

and fathers,

their aunts

and uncles, grandparents

too.

they learn

how to butter toast

the way we

do,

comb their hair, or speak

when spoken

to.

they get into their plastic

toy cars and

ride off to imaginary work,

and often

girls

will rock their doll

asleep

after walking it down

the street

in a carriage.

or pretend at marriage.

and when the small pet

dies,

they play at funeral,

taking the box to the far

end of the yard

for burial

and final words.

they don't know it yet,

but slowly

they might be becoming

wise.

the shade tree has fallen

there are many

reasons

for moving, for getting out of dodge.

the town

has changed.

it's more crowded,

more crime

more

traffic on the roads.

so many of the old neighbors,

good friends have

died.

the shade tree in the yard

has fallen.

have you stayed too long

again

with something

you've loved?

is it time for it to end?

hand me the map, please.

white winter

like winter,

our

age is white

and grey.

the once few strands

are now

in full

bloom.

so much of youth,

and color

did fade.

the cruelty of hunger

hunger

weakens me,

sends me down aisles

i don't want

to go.

therein lies

the candy, the donuts,

the cakes

and pies,

chips

and cookies,

all of it nutritionally deprived.

and further down,

are the glass

doors full of ice cream.

it's 95 degrees

outside.

i hear the voice inside me,

what are you

living for, go on, go on.

just buy.

hunger

is a cruel place to be.

i could deliver a baby with these hands

when

i get home

i go down to the stone

sink

in the cellar

pull the string on the bare

light

above me

and scrub my hands with

a large

white bar

of Lava soap.

a grit filled rock like square.

have my hands ever been this

dirty before?

full of oil and grease,

paint

and caulking, dried blood,

of course they have.

but like a surgeon,

i scrub and brush at the skin,

i get under the nails,

i rub deep and hard, 

then rinse

until the fingers and palms

are pink

and raw. at last clean.

i hold them up

into the air as they dry,

as if they were

touched by God.

i believe i could deliver a baby

with these hands

if i had to.

the big beautiful bill

there is weeping

and gnashing of teeth

as the big

beautiful bill gets passed

after being tossed back and forth

between the house

and senate.

massaged and tweaked down

to the bone, but

the aisles are

wet with tears.

there are moans and groans

unheard of since

the civil war years.

speeches are made,

hair is pulled out in dyed clumps,

wigs are thrown

across the room.

men and women are bent

over in abdominal pain.

it's the end of the world

as we know it,

at least that is what

they claim.

and yet tomorrow, most

people will get up

and go to work or school.

some will lick ice-cream cones,

or have a picnic

in the shade.

it'll be 

just another day.

the long goodbye

the in-laws

came one Christmas

for a week.

but then they didn't leave.

i'd whisper

to my wife at night

behind

closed doors and ask her

what's up with them,

why don't they go home.

they're starting to annoy me.

they eat like there's

no tomorrow, he sits in

my easy chair

and controls the remote,

and your mother

uses up all the hot water

with her long

baths in our bathroom.

not to mention their two

dogs who are chewing up

the furniture and filling

the yard with their business.

almost every night the walls

are shaking

as they make love.

why does she call him daddy

all the time?

aren't they too old to be doing

the wild thing so much?

can you talk with them

tomorrow and suggest that 

they go home?

i already did that, sweetie,

she said,

and we all agree,

we all want you to leave.

road rage etiquette

i try

to avoid road rage, holding

my hand

down,

not giving anyone

an angry salute,

i refuse to roll the window

down to yell

and scream

about the close call,

about not using

a turn signal,

or tail gating behind me.

i ignore

the lingerer at the stop light

perusing their phone,

i want to, but

i don't tap on the horn.

i restrain myself.

there are too many people

out there

with bats

and guns,

off their meds

on the road to Armageddon.

the cat's out of the bag

it's a distant memory,

but you

still have it of when the world

wasn't quite the way

it is now.

was it better?

more civil and kind, more

normal,

whatever that might mean,

perhaps.

but you wonder if the pendulum

will ever once again

swing.

when falling off a house

an inch

here, or an inch there

can

mean all

the difference in the world

when falling

off a house,

on one side the sidewalk,

the other side

the driveway

made of concrete

and bricks

and there in the middle

is the mound of topsoil

waiting to be spread for

new flowers

around the house,

catching you.

reaching out to all ships at sea

to no one

in particular, i start off the letter.

hello,

how are you?

how's life,

how's the weather, the kids?

are you well,

are you hanging in there?

happy

with your life, or just

content

and reasonably satisfied

with the way

things have turned out?

what's new with you?

drop me a line, or two.

or stop by.

you know where i live,

i'm in the same house.

a short visit would be nice.

the technology graveyard

it's all junk now.

all this metal, all these wires.

the screens

and chargers, the printers,

the keyboards,

the endless

pieces of technology we're

forced to consume.

ten years

and done, the washer leaks,

the fridge won't stay cold,

the ac

is broken,

the phone is done,

the furnace clunks and says

no more.

i stare out at the old grey truck,

on its last legs,

and sigh,

you too, are you

ready for the graveyard?

everyone's a millionaire

my

garbage man is a millionaire,

so is my

landscaper

and housekeeper.

the clerk at the grocery store,

the shoe

clerk,

the shop keeper,

the flower seller

and bum

sitting in a chair

on the corner.

they've invested well over

the years,

the stock market has been

very very good

to them.

there is no need

to work anymore,

but they need structure

in their lives,

so they keep going.

Alcatraz of the North Pole

after

the alligator Alcatraz

is done,

the administration

begins

to brainstorm, and bang

their heads

together

like coconuts to come up

with more

solutions

on where to put

all the criminals

that have invaded the country.

they need to create

more temporary

confinements to handle

the thousands

before processing and deportation.

what about Antartica,

or the North Pole,

or the South Pole one man with a red

bow tie suggests.

a ten story

igloo.

there's nowhere to run

if anyone

escapes.

just polar bears

and killer whales,

crazy penguins and temperatures

way below

freezing.

high fives are given around

the table.

work begins

manana,

as they order the chisels,

and pray

for more ice and snow.

even when the lights are red

the next

day

then the next day

and then

the one after that

comes

and goes

in a flash.

life is a blur at times,

even

when the lights

are all

red.

perpetual sales

has anyone

ever

who's been their right mind

ever purchased

anything

from a random

phone call?

have they switched phone

plans,

or bought

some pharmaceuticals.

changed insurance,

or signed

up for a vacation in France.

no one

that i know.

and yet they still call.

the round blue pool

we had

a pool in the back yard,

maybe ten feet across

thirty feet around,

two feet deep,

that we inflated

with a bike pump

and filled with water from

a hose.

it was bright blue and

made of vinyl,

that i can still smell now.

no country club,

but it was fine.

for hours we would lie

in those soon to be

unclean

waters and float.

if we squeezed our

legs together, we

could fit in maybe

ten skinny kids and a dog.

until everyone had

to go home.

before it all begins

you exhale,

tired already,

so you sit in the chair

in the big

room,

the room where the light is

good enough

to read by,

but who has the time?

there are trees out the window

full of rain.

a red cardinal

on sill.

the day is ahead of you.

it waits

for you.

but for now this is good.

the quiet

and peace

before it all begins again.

depressed in Portland

i'm depressed he tells me,

which

makes me

depressed.

i'm sad

and blue. down in the dumps.

but why,

i ask him,

you have skills

a college degree, you're

young and healthy.

what is it that's making

you this way.

well, he says, it rains

every night and day here,

the sky is grey,

there's trash on the streets,

crime is out the roof,

there's no work,

no joy,

there's no way out

of this predicament

unless i move.

alligator Alcatraz

word

amongst the alligators

and pythons

has been

passed on with the new

construction

of the prison

in Florida.

they are chattering

with their

big mouths

and teeth all day on the phone.

salivating

at the possible feast

about to come.

pythons are tying themselves

up in knots

with joy as to what's to come.

you can see them lining

up on the embankment

with forks

and knives,

bottles of ketchup

and mustard, salt and

pepper, with their

bibs on tight.

robotic cold shoulder

i order

up a robot online.

a thing

to do my washing and cleaning,

hanging

clothes

out on the line,

it can cook

and walk the dog,

do the bills

on time.

it will do everything i

need to have done,

except make

love.

so things haven't changed

that much.

waving the checkered flag

initially

she gave me the yellow flag

of caution,

go slow,

my dear.

pace yourself.

i understood, but in time

i got

the green flag, which she

waved

and waved,

the road wide

and bright with sun,

it was easy going around

her track,

especially

when the checkered

flag appeared

at the end

of having fun.

amateur hour

i can swim.

but just a little.

i'll never be able to save

someone drowning.

i can sing too,

not well,

but the shower will do.

i can dance.

you should have seen

me back in

the eighties, despite

the two left feet.

i could eat as well

back then,

but not now,

a bucket of

chicken

with mashed potatoes

and gravy

is impossible.

i'm a minimalist at heart.

doing a lot

of things

okay, but not well.

heroic measures

when he could

no longer see clearly he stopped

buying

lottery tickets.

he trusted no one

to read him off the numbers,

not even his

prospective new wife.

he'd been playing

his whole life,

won a few bucks here and there.

and lost

nearly everything,

his check book

pathetically near

zero.

what he wouldn't do

for one more

twenty-dollar bill to slide

into the slot,

one last change at being

a hero, but incognito

of course.

object dissonance

i asked her

once

why she was washing her underwear

in the sink.

there's a washer

and a dryer in the basement,

i told her.

no, she said.

these are special garments.

they have

memories

of when i was someone's queen

and he was my king.

i have to take

care of these

things

or else the memory will fade.

go away please

why does anyone

care

about celebrities in the news,

their political

views.

so what,

they can sing and dance,

act

after memorizing their lines

and told

where to stand.

the pretty boys and girls,

women

and men.

clothes on, clothes off.

saints

and angels with rusted halos,

criminals and deviants.

what's with us that we pay

any attention

to these dopes, born

lucky

in the gene pool?

the annual shoe sale

the man

shows me his wall,

the one he wants

me to repair,

the almost perfectly formed

hole

where his head hit

when he fell

over the shoes

his wife left, strewn

on the floor.

i ask him if it hurts,

he says no,

but he's not talking to

his wife

anymore.

and she's no longer allowed

in Norstrom

for the annual

shoe sale.

asleep in the ocean

stay

in the ocean long enough

and at night

it will

be with you.

the rock

and sway of it.

the waves

the swells.

your body will take

it home

with you.

a reminder of how small

you really are.

live here and get free everything

the new

mayor wants less police,

more taxes

on the rich,

more free stuff, more

of everything.

he's put a candy bowl

on every corner

of every street.

free housing, free food,

free school.

legal drugs.

he wants the city to be

a sanctuary for the poor

the lost,

the traumatized

and weak,

the needy and convicted.

an asylum

for the mentally

ill.

he wants to open up

the prison doors

and set

people free.

and you wonder why

so many are

packing to leave.

just go back to sleep

if heard a noise,

a strange

creak

of steps, or a jiggling

of the door

or shutter

outside

banging freely

in the wind,

i'd get out of bed

and go investigate.

now i roll over and put

another pillow

over my head.

i've given up on so

many things,

fear being one of them.

1960's firecrackers

as kids

we had real fireworks,

none of this lame

junk they sell now.

no way.

we had tight little bars of TNT,

red and grey tubes

of explosives

with little black fuses

that could

blow things up.

and yes,

there were a few kids

with missing fingers

and eyes,

scarred for life with

busted teeth and jaws,

never again mentally

quite right,

but oh what fun

we had

when a coke bottle,

or a watermelon blew up,

or when you

put a few of them into

a big blue mailbox.

frozen tundra pizza

it's a frozen

pizza

that i set on the counter.

the expiration date

smudged

beyond reading.

there's

an inch of frost on the box.

it's been

in Siberia for God knows how long,

but i'm tired

of eggs,

tired of peanut butter

and jelly

sandwiches.

i check the top shelf for

Imodium,

a half full box,

then

slide the pie into the oven,

with the grey droppings

of sausage

not quite

thawed out.

just one will do

if lucky,

you have a handful of friends.

true

friends.

people that you talk to,

complain with,

or share your day with.

lifelong friends.

people you miss when you

don't see them,

people you need to talk

to when

things are good,

when the chips are down.

people

that you hug or kiss on

the cheek

when they're around.

if lucky,

you have a handful,

but really, just one will do.

lost in Moscow

it's been ages

since i've heard from Dasha

in Moscow.

she's fallen off the face

of the earth

it seems.

i get no more texts or calls,

no more

weather or war

updates.

no more pictures of snow

and her

in her long

boots

and knit shawl.

i wonder sometimes, 

mostly when i'm drinking vodka,

where she may have gone.

a flying fig

i don't care

that you aren't a good person,

that you

lie,

that you cheat and steal

and pretend

to be someone that you aren't.

it's okay.

really.

i don't care what you do

with your life.

i've known too many of the likes

of you,

to give a flying fig

anymore.

i have better things to do

these days

with my time.

i've seen the light.

another shot of Novocain please

frantically i tap

the chair i'm

lying

down in at the dentist's office

and start

to shake.

i kick my legs.

my eyes water,

i want to cry out for

my mommy,

but my mouth is full

of carboard

and gauze.

the dentist has found

my last nerve

apparently.

it's a lighting strike

in my brain.

oh my,

she says. maybe we didn't

inject enough

Novocain

into your pink gums.

let's give it some more time

to get numb,

alright?

between here and there

i lie

down on top of the grassy

hill.

it's after midnight.

there seems to be nothing

between

me

and God

at this moment.

the cluster

of stars,

the blackness

of what lies beyond.

i've settled on nearly everything,

i blame no

one.

it's not over yet,

but

at times it feels close.

call for a good time

i see the phone number

on the bathroom

stall,

and the name Becky

written in black

indelible ink.

a smiley face

beside it.

call for a good time, it says.

extension

224.

i take a picture of it

with my

phone

and when i get home, i call

the number.

i'm way overdue for a good

time.

we're meeting tomorrow

for lunch.

he never beat us

the worst kids

in the neighborhood were the ones

that got

a regular

beating from their

father.

they were the kids that always

got into trouble

in school,

always in a fight, or throwing

a rock through a window,

stealing flowers

off a grave.

thankfully, our father was

rarely home.

so we behaved and for the most

part, we got good grades.

too much love

the dog

took advantage of my kindness,

my good

nature,

and so

he got fat and lazy.

he slept all day

with hardly

a bark

i gave him

too much, but out of love,

mind you.

and now

my children

never call.

the Russian teacups

i could

see the worry on her face.

the clouds,

the deep

lines of regret,

to whom

would everything go to

when

the end came.

who would get these

pictures

on the wall, the curio

filled

with years

of travel.

the Russian teacups

on the shelf,

a vase from Venice,

the jewelry in the box

that played

music, itself an heirloom.

perhaps

marrying young

and having children was not

a bad idea

after all.

willing to negotiate

his yard

was full of everything he no longer

wanted

in his house.

everything was marked

one dollar,

his shirts and shoes,

his old television,

his fishing rods

and skates,

his old

computer, his couch.

he was willing

to negotiate down

as well.

but by the end of the weekend

nothing was sold, so

he carried

everything back in,

he'll try again

next spring.

the flea market being an annual

thing.

the polka dot dress

the moment

i met her

in that polka dot

dress,

i could feel a sin coming on.

thankfully

the church

was not far away,

Saturday confession

became daily.

you knew what he wasn't

it used to be you

could

tell who a man was by his hands.

the callouses,

the scars,

by the creases

on his face,

the way he walked,

the way

he sat still,

the way he ate, said grace.

the silence

of his voice, unless needed.

life

had worn away the softness

of his skin.

he worked

for a living. he wasn't

a politician.

young whippersnappers next store

i can

tell my neighbor thinks i'm getting old.

if i leave

the lights on

in the car,

she knocks on the door,

and politely tells me so.

if i leave

the keys in lock,

she pushes them through

the mail slot.

she watches

for any deliveries,

boxes on the porch,

keeping them

until i get home.

yesterday she offered to pick

me up some

things

at the store if i needed

anything.

she tells me to be careful,

if i'm going out.

the roads are treacherous

today, and

it's hot.

very hot.

be sure to hydrate.

maybe wear a hat, okay?

that girl was on fire

there was the time

we were dancing in the kitchen,

when her

dress bumped up

against the gas burner, still

on, boiling

something in a pot

and her yellow dress caught fire.

there was smoke and heat.

she swung around faster.

i thought it was me

she was so

excited about, until she rolled

on the floor,

in flames.

finally, and not a second too late,

i doused her 

with jug of water to put her out.

all over now baby blue

his mind was sharp,

even at the end, 

though his body

was

a cookie

crumbling in warm milk.

legs,

arms, his back,

nothing

was working anymore.

but

he remembered

everything

you ever old him, he could

recount all

the memories in his life,

the good

and bad, if asked.

it was hard,

very hard to press your

fingers against

his blue eyes and close

them.

legacy in a landfill

i stick

a flash drive into the side

of the computer

and start

backing up my so called

life for the last

twenty-five years.

a meaningless

chore,

but so it goes.

pictures, words, whatever

i've accumulated

down through the years,

but why,

what for?

we're talking more landfill

here, but

instead of boxes

of pictures, mementos,

etc.,

it's this little gizmo

blinking

blue that will eventually

disappear.

i hate you Microsoft

like a car

i don't want to open the hood

and work

on the engine,

or lie under

it for any reason, to fix

a rattle,

change the oil,

peruse a leaking tire.

please.

i'm done with that.

and so it goes with the computer

on my desk,

the one on

my lap, the one on the shelf

that i never use.

i don't want to figure things

out.

i want to log on

and write, pay a bill,

look up more stuff to waste

time on,

and buy things.

it's ten years old,

but works fine with Windows

10.

and now you're trying to scare

me into buying another one,

sending me messages

that now i'll be vulnerable

to hackers

and creepy people, trying

to get in.

without Windows 11, i'll

be doomed,

my little world will end.

i hate you Microsoft

and all your

nerdy friends.

another package on the stoop

i click the button

on the keyboard, and that's it,

something

will arrive soon,

in a day or two,

or week.

there it will be on the front stoop.

it's not something i dearly

need

or even want badly,

but i click just the same.

like a child,

i'm oh so weak.

the big green chair on the curb

he couldn't watch tv

without

a bag of something to eat,

nuts,

or chips,

candy,

some sort of salty snacks

or sweets.

he'd nibble,

one hand in the bag.

one hand

on the remote.

i can see him now.

hear him crunch

and smack

his lips,

as i carry the battered

easy chair out to the curb 

for pick up.

out the other side

when

you're in the dark tunnel.

the hell

that sometimes life

is,

you can't imagine ever getting

out,

ever reaching the end.

but then

you do.

you're out the other side,

scarred

and bruised,

but alive.

you've survived, and vow

to never return

to the something

or someone that put you there.

truly, you

are through.

trying to hold a cat

the instant

you pick up a cat, it wants

to get down.

it wiggles

and claws,

scratches and meows.

it can't stand

the idea

of you holding it,

nuzzling

against it's neck,

and you

wanting affection in return.

it wants

down.

Julie was exactly like that.

no sign of anyone else ever living here

she was married

three times, but i only

see

the photo of her dog

on the mantle.

i see his

collar,

his leash still on the hook

by the door.

his empty

bowl

on the counter with his

name on it.

in the corner is his

pillow

bed,

his toy bears and other

stuffed

animals,

his squeaky toy

and the bones he gnawed

on.

there's an oil

painting of him

on the dining room wall.

there's no sign

of anyone else ever living

here.

the card game at Sam's

we're not

here anymore to play cards,

maybe we never

were.

the five of us

in Sam's basement

with the big fan in the corner,

the faux paneled

walls.

we don't smoke

anymore, we hardly drink.

those days are done.

we shuffle

the cards

and eat our sandwiches.

talking about our

grandchildren now,

not women.

the pot has grown

smaller,

and so have we,

some of us have passed

on.

we're here for other reasons.

not poker

or blackjack.

by being together we've

already won.

lobster tails were his favorite apparently

i don't remember

much

about the funeral, being

a friend of a friend,

of a friend,

but i went just the same.

did it rain?

perhaps,

was there weeping?

of course there was.

but what i remember most

was the lobster tails

on the long white

table,

the tubs of melted butter

and bibs,

at someone's home,

a distant aunt, who seemed

pleased

to serve a banquet,

whether you grieved or

didn't grieve,

pull up a chair, she said,

make

yourself at home.

statistically speaking

if you start off

our conversation with the phrase

statistically

speaking,

you may see my eyelids

droop

and come close

to closing.

i may be sleeping standing up

before you know it,

as you recite to me

the numbers

you read an hour ago

in the Washington Post.

the dog vacuum

when

i drop the plate

of stew,

the ice tray from the fridge,

the bag

of nuts,

my black sweater

full of crumbs,

a glass of milk

turned

and spilled, this is

when i miss

my dog.

i miss him very much.

Norman in the back row of the class

you had to keep

an eye on

Norman, the kid in the back

row of the class.

you never

knew what he might say

or do.

always blurting out

a crude joke,

or making noises

with different parts of his body.

sometimes he'd

punch you in the hallway,

just for fun.

he was the wild card in the class.

a strange bird.

so it was odd

when i ran into him

years later, wearing a bow tie

and married to the English

teacher we both

once had.

political table settings

i see my grandmother

packing

up all her fine China into boxes

for storage

in the attic.

genuine

bone plates and cups

from Peking.

she looks at me

when i come in and shakes

her head.

i hate politics,

she says.

but what choice do i have.

i'll bring them

all out once more,

if we're ever friends again.

but who will vacuum our carpet

the radical left,

you never

hear them complain about who

will be

our brain surgeons,

our

heart doctors, our mathematicians,

our poets

and novelists,

our philosophers.

our teachers and lawyers.

instead they

belittle a whole

ethnic group

of people by saying who

will clean

our houses,

cut our grass, change the diapers

on our children,

paint our walls

and repair our roofs.

who will

pick the fruit in our fields,

as if that's all they can do.

we will learn our lines

in time

we will have learned our lines.

we will

know where

to stand,

what to say or to not say.

we will

know how to perform

at weddings

and funerals,

we will know

how to position ourselves

in the best light

possible.

being politely silent when

the curtain

rises.

we will know when to take

a bow

or smile.

it takes time, but we

learn

how to get along.