good news again

with no

shoes, i go down to the mailbox

at the end

of the road,

careful with the shards

of stones,

prickly gravel

and weeds

and flip open the metal

box.

just bills and ads,

that's all.

good news again.

southern Maryland 1979

it was

a warm and sticky southern

Maryland day,

down at the shore, picking heaps

of blue crab.

all the girls were blonde,

and 

fat, their legs red

in their dixie dukes and flip flops.

the men too, in their

tank tops,

sunburned and tattooed,

their father's boats

tied to the pier,

holding fishing rods.

the Allman brothers played

overhead,

as another bowl of hush

puppies arrived

and steamed

sweet corn, like logs rolling

around,

spilled onto the Baltimore Suns

daily news.

clear yellow beer in sweating

pitchers kept

coming.

the waitress shaking her head

and rolling her eyes.

another Hon?

we worked all day

until the moon came out,

with our wooden mallets

and pliers, our raw fingers,

dipping

small lumps of crab meat

into the paper tubs

of vinegar and butter.

exclaiming loudly when

a large chunk was removed

from a crusted leg,

hey, look at this one.

waving it proudly

with raucous applause

before going down.

these pews are very hard

the smoke

and mirrors, the gowns,

the gold,

the stained-glass windows,

the hard pews,

rows 

and rows.

the sermon,

dusty

and old

with light lashes

of the whip, the

fire and brimstone,

burned out.

the red carpet, 

the glitter of it all,

the organ

playing.

announcements made.

potluck dinner at 7.

donation cans

in the box

up front.

let's pray for Jenny,

Jack

and Joe.

the choir singing.

so much, so much

going on,

and all i wanted to do

was put

my hands together

and say

i'm sorry.

i'll try to do better

tomorrow.

in the light of day

a drip

of words, a small leak

in my

brain,

are released

into the wild

on this dark night.

the fingers do all the hard

work

and heavy lifting

of thoughts, most

of which

i'll erase

when i come to my senses,

and am no

longer

tired

of it all.

musical neighbor

the piano

teacher next door, before

she met

her future husband

on Catholic Singles,

used to bring

me over a plate of whatever

she had made

for dinner

that week.

sometimes a stew,

sometimes

a pasta dish with garlic bread.

sometimes

a cake.

thank you, i'd tell her.

you're way too kind,

then listen

to her play her piano

through the wall,

until she went to bed,

climbing the stairs

alone.

his throne

it's easy

to see which was his

favored chair.

the rumpled one

by the window,

by the light, with the little

stand to hold

books

and cups,

an ashtray and his lighter.

the remote.

the cushions

are still curved

by the shape of his

weight,

his legs and arms.

his head leaning back

on a small pillow.

i resist sitting down in it,

before carrying 

it to the curb,

his throne.

sorry, we already have blue eyed people working here

i circle an ad in the classified section

of the free press,

it reads,

brain surgeons

needed ASAP,

due to the pandemic outbreak

of TDS syndrome

we have an opening for a

highly qualified senior

brain surgeon.

i put my donut down,

and go in

for the interview to be a brain

surgeon

at the local

hospital.

i show them my resume, 

my skills

at diving into

the cranium,

pulling stuff out, dissecting

and making

people healthy again, 

clearly i know my way around 

the cerebellum,

but the HR director asks,

what color are my eyes?

i tell her sort of blue,

a bluish green.

she tells me to turn my

head up

towards the light to get 

a better look.

oh, i'm so sorry, we already

have three

brain surgeons with

blue eyes,

we need brown or yellowish,

maybe something a

little mixed,

with some red or orange

in them,

sadly,

you're not qualified,

we have quotas

and standards set by

the board of directors.

we know you're the best

brain surgeon in town,

maybe in the universe,

but we can't hire you.

there is however an opening

in radiology,

perhaps try there.

what's on the menu St. Peter?

will

there be allergies in heaven,

issues

with gluten

or 

carbs, indigestion?

will sugar be there?

cakes

and pies, sodas

and enormous

bags of chips,

family size?

will there be a long drug store

fountain,

with seats that swivel,

where we can

order grilled cheese sandwiches

or banana splits

and cherry cokes?

like we used to do on Atlantic

street at

the Rexall store.

please tell me it won't be kale

and carrots,

spaghetti squash

and avocados. 

please tell me

we won't have to count calories

and wear

baggy robes

like Orson Welles.

with you by my side

one tire is low,

we're almost out of gas,

the windshield is cracked,

we're burning oil

and we're driving with one headlight.

but it's okay.

we'll get there,

we always get there,

despite all odds,

the deluge of rain

swept by the bent wipers.

the bridge out,

who cares.

we always arrive, late perhaps,

but we get there

when you're by my side.

the public pool

when i set

my son into the warm

water of a bath

at the age

of one,

with his toy boat,

and duck

and other assorted

things

that he would play with,

immediately

when his body touched

the water he would emit

a great arc

of pee into the air.

and this is why i don't

get into the neighborhood

pool,

when children are

splashing around.

i need some time alone

i'm avoiding you,

can't you

tell?

can't you see how i don't answer

your calls,

or the door

when you arrive without

an invitation.

i'm taking my leave of you.

taking

a vacation

if you may,

from your presence.

i need time to think this through.

to decide

if it's worth the effort to

be miserable

everyday

with you.

seven days away

i bring

home unintended things,

like sand

and salt

water

from the beach.

soggy shoes.

sandwiches half eaten

tossed

in the back seat.

bottles of warm water

in the trunk.

wet towels,

torn beach chairs.

a bag of saltwater taffy

from the boardwalk.

newspapers and magazines.

a box of plump

tomatoes from the roadside

stand,

and two

fat peaches that i eat

as i drive.

sunburned, i bring home

more than i left with.

not counting

money.

disconnected

the number

you have called

has been disconnected,

it is no longer

in service,

please try again

if you've

dialed incorrectly.

that's just one small thing

that happens

when death occurs.

orange shag carpet

the first

apartment, not far from the racetrack,

was 235 dollars

a month.

including utilities.

washer and dryer

in the kitchen, ground floor,

with a sliding

door leading to woods out

back.

one bathroom,

one bedroom.

wall to wall shag carpet.

air conditioned and heated.

it was heaven on earth for

five years.

i even had the newspaper

delivered to the front

door.

i could easily go back.

people don't know me

the actress

on tv,

doing her bi-weekly interview,

confesses

that people don't really know

who she is.

they don't know

what's inside

of her.

the gifted, brilliant, self

aware

person,

humble and yet insecure.

a golden globe

winner,

Oscars on her mantle,

worshiped and adored

by millions. but

they don't know me,

she says. they only hear about

my six divorces,

and estranged children.

my surgeries

and enhancements.

they don't know the other side of me,

how shy i really am, how

kind and reticent.

they only hear about the mean

things that i've done.

people don't know that i worry

about plastic bags in the sea,

and the tree frogs

in Jamaica.

children born with six toes

on their feet.

no one knows 

that sometimes i let the gardeners

on my palatial estate

use the bathroom

inside the house.

my fans, 

they don't know me.

the interview, three hours

long,

will be continued next week

as one or two of her five

houses are toured,

then a trip to Catalina Island

on her yacht.

born with it

us,

born with radar,

the B.S. detector,

can see

it coming, feel it,

know it

before it arrives or is

in the room.

we hear

it in the voice, see it

in the gestures

and body

language.

so obvious in the eyes.

we can smell it a mile

away.

we get our shovels

ready,

ready

to shovel it all away.

they cancelled who?

i see a crowd

of people on the corner, sitting

down

on the sidewalk

with their signs and megaphones.

crying.

weeping, sobbing.

holding each other, as if

they might not be able

to go on with life.

what's up, i ask the leader,

the one in a lime green

highway vest.

didn't you hear, they cancelled

that late night talk show.

he was the best, always

on our side.

Kermit the frog and Miss Piggy

could be next.

they're taking our leaders away.

disappearing them.

who, i ask.

never heard of him?

what time was he on,

what channel?

was he funny? who's Kermit?

here, suck on this lemon

she wants me

to be more serious, to stop

joking around,

to stop

with the sarcastic comments,

the ribbing

and clowning around.

she wants me to grow up

and be like her.

serious and sad,

an adult

sucking on lemons, stern

with her frown.

going extinct

the teacher

at the front of the class is

younger

than me.

the policeman

who pulls me over,

the chef

in the kitchen.

the politicians, almost all

are decades

younger.

the grocery clerks,

the manager

of the store,

the girl

in the toll booth.

the priest.

the whole world seems

so much

younger than me,

it's interesting becoming

a dinosaur.

nice try

i see my

ex wife at the door

with a large

suitcase,

holding what looks like a bundt

cake

she baked.

i haven't had bundt cake

in ages.

i look at the dog and ask him

if i should let her

in.

he growls.

and shakes his head.

we turn the lights off

and go

back to bed.

a come to Jesus moment

i talk,

converse with the inanimate

things

in my house.

i give pep talks to the toaster,

encouragement

to the printer,

i have a deep

conversation with the computer

as it takes its

good old time

to come to life.

i tell the washer to settle

down,

when it becomes unbalanced

making a clunking

sound,

jumping about.

i praise the oven

for its heat,

the ac for its cool wind.

but the smoke alarm

i'm done with,

angry with its sensitivity,

how it goes

wild

as i stand at the stove,

boiling water.

i have a come to Jesus

moment with it, threatening

it with a broom stick.

more beautiful in snow

it was a small

house

on a hill behind some trees

up a sloping

driveway.

brick 

and wood,

not a single strip of vinyl.

an old house.

with French doors,

blue shutters

almost violet.

two chimneys i could see

from the road.

a garage

further down

beyond the garden.

i used to see the woman

sitting in

the shade

with her dog, reading.

sometimes she'd wave,

before i

moved on.

it was even more beautiful

in snow.

i'm not surprised

i'm not surprised when

i read

about the hot air balloon hitting

the power lines,

or the bungee jumper

hitting his

head on the side

of the bridge,

or when swimming with

the sharks

becomes a blood bath,

or when the sky diver falls to his

death when his

parachute fails to open.

i'm not surprised at all when

someone's head is inside

a lion's mouth,

and is bitten off, nor am

i surprised when someone

gets married for a fourth

time.

i'm not surprised at all.

a time machine would be nice

do i wish

there were things i could back,

words

i wished i never said?

of course,

too many

to mention, but there is no

time machine,

at least not

yet.

but if there was i'd go back,

for starters,

just an hour,

and reorder what i just ate.

vanity until the end

when i cleaned

out his house, i stared at the shelves

in his

medicine

cabinet.

full of vitamins and face

creams.

oils,

but no prescription pills.

half blind,

near deaf,

his vanity remained intact

until the day he died.

never with hearing aid,

or a pair of glasses.

yellow roses for the fourth floor

i used to run

those steps

in boyish leaps

and bounds, two at a time,

all the way up

to the fourth floor where

Delores lived.

she'd leave a key

under her mat,

or the door cracked.

out of breath, i'd find

her in the bath,

singing,

playing the radio.

dinner on the stove.

sometimes i'd bring her

roses.

sometimes i wonder how

she is,

where she's at.

with galoshes on

should i walk to work,

or take the bus,

perhaps the train,

or catch a ride with

a stranger with my

thumb out?

maybe ride my bike

into town,

or roller-skate,

or ride my son's skateboard,

perhaps take

the electric scooter.

wouldn't that be something

at this age,

in this cold rain?

filling the void

a sheet

of paper, blank and white,

is a wonderful

thing.

it waits patiently for your

words to come,

the pen

at its side.

it waits for you

to write.

to fill the void, to bring

air, to bring

rain, to bring sunshine

to this life.

brainwashed

we show

each other our cards, after

soft small

talk

about the weather and sports.

he says, i hate him.

he's a liar,

a crazy man.

i ask for specifics.

he says,

he lies about everything,

can you name

one lie,

just one.

he says, no, not at the moment.

but i still

hate him.

CNN

says i should.

but energy and food

prices

are down,

i tell him.

wars are winding down.

employment

is up.

no taxes on tips,

they're taking the fraud

out of Medicare

and Medicaid.

taxpayers are getting breaks,

seniors

are getting more on their

social security,

manufacturing is coming

back to this country.

the border is completely secure.

i don't know about any of that,

he says.

that's the first i've heard

of any of that,

but what about the Epstein files?

gotcha there, don't I?

where is everyone?

where is

everyone, i think, as i drive

to the store,

the traffic is light.

no crowd

on the corner, no one

between 

the lines selling flowers.

no long

line at McDonald's.

no mobs

of men

at the 7-11 or Home Depot.

no one

mowing the lawns,

or blowing leaves.

the avocado

stack at the grocery store

has grown smaller

too.

i look around the paint store,

and it's just me.

the smart dog

my dog is smart,

clever,

quite adept in reading the room,

he can

understand a handful of words,

like fetch, sit,

beg, leash and treat.

but if you tell him

the second Tuesday

of the next month he's going to

the vet for shots

and to have his nails clipped,

he doesn't have a clue.

not far from home

not far

we are from home.

a few miles more and we'll

arrive.

we'll be back

to where we live.

where things are where they

should be.

we will know,

the turn of the knob,

the drip

of water, the creak of floor.

we will know

how the bed

embraces you

at night,

and so much more.

well worn but not useless

i'm giving my body

to science,

she tells me as we drink bloody

marys

in the shade of the oak tree

in her yard.

she's brought her bowl

of goldfish out

to keep us company,

setting it on the table.

if i die and yet

all of my body parts are healthy

and remain in tact.

why not?

she sucks

on her celery stalk,

then waves it around like

a baton

directing an orchestra.

i mean, why not?

she says.

if i'm dead why not give up

my eyes,

my brain,

my arms and legs,

my heart, my kidney, my

lungs....my...

i interrupt her at this point.

and tell

her to stop.

i'm afraid of what she might

say next.

cold blood

is it murder

to take

the life of a wasp

about

to sting you, the snake

about

to bite you on the ankle?

the rabid

raccoon

crazy eyed with

claws

out?

is there guilt

and remorse for

these innocent creatures

just doing

what nature

tells them to do?

perhaps a little, but

not much

as you secure the back

door.

prepping for protest season

i see a proliferation

of mask stores, selling all kinds

of masks.

gas masks,

doctor masks,

surgeon cover ups,

there are blank signs that you

can buy as well,

with magic markers,

and erasable boards.

thesaurus's too

to find that perfect word

that rhymes

with war,

or Ice, or 

alligator. Alcatraz.

once vacations at the beach

are over,

it's protest season

once more.

what you're looking for

it's good

to find what you couldn't find

the day

before,

a week, or year,

ago.

what was hidden has been found.

no need to look

or search

what you were looking for,

it will tell you where

it is,

with time.

multi tasking

you know

it's your house when

you can

open and close

the dishwasher with your

left foot

while

scrambling eggs

on the stove

and making

a long reach into the cupboard

for salt

and pepper.

all while,

with your chin and teeth,

dropping two

slices of bread

into the toaster on the counter,

pressing on

the button

with a spatula.

shocking blue

breaking news, breaking news.

there's been a report

that over seventy-nine far left

socialist

communist supporters of Mamdani

in NYC

have been injured in a rare lightning

strike in Bryant Park.

apparently caused by the collection

of nose

rings being worn by the rally attendees

gathered together

in a small place.

many of the comrades with blue

hair and red berets, 

have now

had their hair streaked white

and their hammer and sickle tattoos

melted into

eerie images

of Lenin and Stalin,

and a woman called AOC.

it's the largest gathering of commies

in the USA, excluding

Ivy League universities, since

the 1930's.

further updates will be made

as more details become available.

the kissing camera

the married

man

and married woman, 

but not to each other,

caught

on camera

while

the searchlight swung around

the crowd

at the concert,

were captured

in a loving embrace.

they've been busted

for all the world to see.

what fun?

how wonderful that they

were caught,

almost with their drawers down.

i only wish

my ex's had

gone to more concerts

with their married

boyfriends

while i watched the kids

at home.

it would have saved me

an awful lot of

dough rey mi.

i admit it, i'm guilty as charged

i admit it,

i haven't given you a hundred

per cent

of my time,

i've been slack

in my love for you.

i'm not with you twenty

four seven,

or always

asking you what's on your

mind.

i'm often late in coming

home,

with no excuse. i realize

that 

we don't take enough walks

together,

or cuddle long on the couch

like we use to.

i know, i know.

i'm guilty as charged.

but i promise i'll do better.

now lets get this

leash on

and go for a walk outside,

maybe i'll throw

you the ball in the yard.

the overdue suit

i take

the tuxedo out of the closet.

a rental.

it's seven years old,

covered in dust

and dried cake icing,

a moth

or two

may have bitten through

the sleeve

and collar.

there's rice in the pockets.

i can't imagine

what

the charges might be for

returning it so late.

i put it in

the basket along with

all the overdue

books from the library.

circa 2008.

the twenty percent tip

she suggests that maybe

we shouldn't

leave a tip this time to teach

the waitress

a lesson.

she was rude,

showing us her cleavage

in her short tight dress.

who wears fishnet stockings

to work?

late with our menus,

the food was cold,

she spilled our drinks,

and forgot to bring

us forks and knives

and napkins.

yeah, but she was very cute,

i tell her.

she's probably pre-med

or pre-law and has

a tuition to pay.

how about twenty per cent?

her friend in Wichita had a hip replacement

her emails

were too long, her text messages

went on

forever, despite

my minimalistic

responses.

like oh, or wow.

sometimes i'd fall asleep

as she told

me stories on the phone

about her

friend in Wichita,

which she'd quiz

me on later,

after hearing me snore.

he's a work in progress

when

you hear the words,

a work

in progress,

it's not good.

the marriage, the relationship,

the job,

the book

you're writing,

the project you're on.

it's a sign of

imminent failure

looming ahead.

so when i hear my wife

on the phone

telling her mother

that i'm a work in

progress,

i sadly shake my head

and pour

another drink.

the passing of Gloria Himmler

the principal

on the PA system in the morning,

would make announcements.

after warning students

about parking on the yellow

painted lines,

and to use the trash cans

outside,

suggested

that we all take

a minute

for a moment of silence

in wake of the passing

of Gloria Himmler,

the science teacher

and gym instructor, part time,

who died

mysteriously overnight.

i can still hear the loud

cheers and clapping

in my ears,

even after all these years,

cascading down the hall

one tomato to go

as i place

the one tomato and one

banana

on the conveyor belt

at the grocery

store,

a pint of milk,

a bar of soap

and a jar of spaghetti sauce,

the old clerk looks at me

and smiles

and asks,

so how long have you

been divorced?

young boys with knives

i don't know

why exactly it came to be that way,

but every kid

on the block

had a pocketknife

of some kind.

you rarely left the house

without it.

a pen knife, a boy scout 

knife with

several pull out blades,

a switch blade.

a Swiss knife

with a red cross

embedded,

a bowie knife with a leather case.

we'd find trees to carve our

names into,

hearts with the initials

of girls inside

who pretty much thought

we were dumb,

our charms not yet revealed

to them.

we cut fish loose

with our knives, sliced worms

into threes, we

pried open cans,

chopped up snakes near

the river.

i look in my kitchen drawer

now

and look at all those knives,

all that assorted cutlery,

none of them

as good as the ones we used

to carry.

in the fall

she went home to Canada

once

for a long summer

and sent me

pictures of her riding

her horse in Halifax,

on the sand,

in the surf.

did she remember

to bring me back genuine

maple syrup

when the leaves fell?

we were in love, so yes,

of course.

almost forgotten

everything

gets smaller the further 

you get away from it.

take the earth

for example, keep flying

and flying

away

and before you know it's

nearly gone,

a blue speck

on your heart, almost

forgotten.

show business

I call up my friend Betty,

who is now

an actress

after quitting her waitress

job at Dennys.

she's crying though.

what's wrong, what's wrong

sweetie,

didn't you get the part?

no, she sighs,

but they did ask me to do

something else.

a commercial.

well, that's wonderful,

so what's with the tears,

why cry?

they want me to be in an

Ozempic commercial.

what heaven might be like

as i sit

here with a double scoop

of mint chocolate

and rocky

road,

my tongue

working like a busy

cat

with her paw 

bathing

in the sun.

i imagine this might be

what heaven

is like,

give or take a few people

walking by.

my hand upon your shoulder

i know

my way around the house,

each corner,

each wall,

the doors and windows,

chairs,

the long

couch.

i know

where the coffee table

is,

the bed,

the dresser, lamps.

in the dead of night 

i can feel

my way around without

any danger

of falling down,

and so it is

with you now, my

hand upon

your shoulder.

the dude has rizz

why are

you throwing shade on him?

she asks me.

she's very hip

and knows all

the current words to use.

i'm still saying

things like

far out

and groovy,

peace out,

making the room cringe.

it is what it is

she says,

two things can be true

at the same time,

and stay in your lane.

i'm sus about your motives,

she says

and 

the dude has rizz.

i ask her to write all of this

down,

so that i can study

the new phrases at night

and not be

laughed at.

the Post and the Times

the newspapers

have changed their name to

The News as We See Fit to Print

and Daily B.S...

no longer do they pretend to

be fair and honest,

unbiased.

they come right out and tell

you that it's all

gossip and hearsay, bent

on ridiculing the other side.

full of propaganda and conspiracy.

most of it

unchecked for facts,

full of disinformation

from unreliable sources

and hacks.

strangely the price has gone up,

despite less and less people

reading it.

waiting for the right moment

as i sit

on the edge of the bed,

waiting,

waiting for the right

moment

to get up

and head to the shower,

i wonder how i injured

my shoulder

as i slept,

what's that about?

NYC 1959

my grandmother,

perpetually poor, now

with her long fingers and painted

nails,

bejeweled

in faux sapphires

and diamonds, emeralds.

the head

of a fox on her shoulder,

carefully

examined the laminated

menu

in Hell's Kitchen

and ordered lamb,

with mint jelly.

me at six,

thought how could she?

making plans for the weekend

she asks me

what my weekend plans are.

what

wonderful things

do you have

in store

for the long three day

weekend.

what will it be?

the city

the beach, a trip to the mountain

lake, perhaps.

maybe a movie

or the theater.

a concert?

a trip to the zoo?

i look at her and smile.

and say one word,

sleep.

his vague love

in his

khaki pants, held

up by

a stretch of twine,

i see him

kneeling in the mud

with his

tomato plants.

his rough hands working

the prickly

stems.

it's

a square of earth

beside

the ac unit, with chicken

wire staked

around.

how many tomatoes

has he grown

in the last

thirty-five years?

who knows.

but i know when i arrive

for my summer

visit, he'll have a grocery

bag full

of them.

his vague love,

shown on the vine.

the afternoon procedure

it's nothing.

the man tells her. it's easy.

you'll be

home

before i will.

it's nothing anymore

it's

acceptable,

in fact.

the nurses are kind.

the doctors

gentle.

you'll hardly feel a thing.

they'll give you a brochure

before you leave.

you may need a ride home.

i'd give you

one, but i'm busy.

good luck though.

i think what you're doing,

for the both of us,

is wise.

too bad things didn't

work out

between us,

perhaps later

i'll find you online.

males

what kind of mallards

have bright

green

heads, i ask her, pondering

the crossword puzzle.

five letters

down,

the first one being M.

oh, you men, she says,

with a bit of exasperation

in her voice.

she's right.

it's males.

text me when General Tao arrives

of course

we're tired, it's Friday isn't it?

i pour a drink,

and ask her

if she wants one.

a double, she says,

throwing

her handbag to the floor

and kicking off

her shoes.

bad day? i ask her.

what do you think?

i hate my job, i hate where

we live.

did you walk

the dog?

yes, i tell her.

i hand her the drink

and sit down on the couch

across from her,

a couch we used to make love

on before

we were married

with just the moonlight coming

through the window

on our glistening bodies

and soft music on.

are you hungry?

i ask her.

Chinese?

sure, she says, gulping

her gin and tonic,

biting on the ice.

the usual.

i'm going upstairs

to lie

down.

text me when it arrives.

going nowhere all dressed up

feeling the need

to go out

somewhere, i put on my

old suit,

pick out a tie

and clean shirt and hit

the streets

in my brown dress shoes.

when people see me

on the street

they ask me where i'm

going all dressed up

like i am

with a splash of cologne 

on my face.

ooh la la, they say.

must be a hot date.

i start walking and walking.

i see a man selling

bouquets of flowers,

so i buy one,

then get on the subway.

i ride until the sun

goes down

and the car is empty.

finally, i go home

and hang my

clothes up in the closet.

i put the flowers into a vase.

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?