drugs, sex and crime

i can see her now,

Mrs. Barclay

in her chair,

afloat in a yellow

flowered

dress. her spoon

lightly

tapping

the China cup,

dropping more sugar in

and spilling

cream

into the steam.

how wonderful she was.

almost

too polite

and shy.

too kind with her words.

her voice

a whisper.

so it surprised me

when she asked me to read

her new novel,

about drugs, and sex

and crime.

cry me a river

there was

money left over,

not a large amount,

not life

changing,

but enough

to buy a new car, a new

boat,

some cosmetic surgery

and enhancements,

a long cruse

to Europe

or Asia,

so the sisters, though estranged

and angry

with their father,

came running

in their long coats, with

lawyers in

tow.

but the will was set.

set in stone.

cold clear water

is there

anything better than cold

water,

clear cold

water from a mountain

stream,

when

the throat is parched,

the mind

dazed,

when

thirst has brought

you to your knees?

faith is like that.

i know it's summer and yet

i stick

a leg out the door

and it

begins to drizzle

in sweat.

the sun has apparently

moved closer

to the earth

or vice versa.

it feels hot,

hotter than normal.

it smells hot.

everyone

is squinting and crying

out to God.

what's up?

what's next, locust

and pestilence?

the weight we carry

with each step

i removed

something from my body,

something

that weighed me down.

a book of poems,

my phone,

my hat

and gloves,

my coat,

my vest, my shirt,

my pants,

my socks.

i set my glasses on the curb,

removed my

watch,

then pressed on.

i was ready to start again

without you.

the black negligee

pulling a chair up,

i find

things i've forgotten about

on the top

shelf

of the deep closet.

do these things remember me?

the baseball

glove,

the shirts i never wore.

shoes,

and hats, a red radio,

a negligee,

silky and black,

left behind

by someone i used to see.

the waitress with pink nails

i'll have two

eggs

over easy, hash browns,

bacon,

wheat toast

and orange juice, i

tell the waitress.

so you want the number

one, she says,

pointing at the menu

with a long

pink finger nail.

oh, and coffee, i tell her.

okay, she says,

so now

you want the number two.

umm.

i guess so,

oh and if you could put

a few pancakes

on the side as well.

angrily,

she crosses out what she's

written on her pad.

are you sure?

is that all you want?

yes, i tell, her, yes.

okay, she says.

one number four coming up.

the passing of ships

you wonder

from

this beach chair, how it is

possible

in the far

distance

that the ship can ever get

anywhere

at such

a slow pace.

crawling across the curve

of the earth.

the length of it,

the rusted

rig,

the iron of it all, plowing

forward

to some distant port.

so you close your eyes,

tip your hat

down

and wait.

before long it's gone.

i can't think of the word

it's

a slow change,

the

forgetting of words,

mispronouncing them,

leaving

things behind,

appointments

made

and not kept.

the water left on,

the door open

with the keys still

in the lock.

it's a slow

change

with so much

falling through the cracks,

getting lost.

the unexpected visitor

there's a frog

at the front door, a toad perhaps,

i'm unsure,

but i call him

Bud,

he looks like a Bud,

serious

and quiet,

sitting there staring up at me,

wordless

in his reptilian ways.

no wife with him,

no children,

no luggage at his side.

but stout,

and wide. he' wearing

a sad grey green

skin

with bumps.

a Stetson hat would look nice.

what is there to say

to a frog

who comes to visit?

i don't know what to tell him

before i close the door,

but i turn the light

on just the same

in case he chooses

to leave

and go down the steps

back home.

what i'll never know

no longer

in full throttle,

running

towards the arms

of waves

offered by the green sea

that roars

romantically,

i gently step into

what's old, ancient

and endless.

ankles to knees

then further

on we go. hips embracing

cold,

stepping gently into

things

i won't ever truly know.

from the ground up

i believe

our argument

continues

after we leave the room,

the fumes

of disagreement

lingering.

we get nowhere.

and yet,

tomorrow will be the same,

and the next

day too.

love is a strange beast

when it eats you

from the ground

up.

the front row seat of my own life

peace

is here, but not to stay

i'm afraid

to say.

it's a temporary fix

on

curtains rising,

and curtains falling,

of actors

appearing

and leaving on this 

old wooden

stage.

more tragedy

and comedy are yet to come.

am i part of it, or just an

observer

in the front row,

the ticket bent in my

sweaty hand.

never standing up to applaud,

never rising

to echo

bravo.

what is it, i wonder

what is it,

i wonder, that ticking clock,

these

wet streets under

the laundry

of clouds,

what is it that makes

us walk

towards or away

from

what needs to be done,

in constant

need

of love,

the shelter of a loved one.

what are the hours about,

the hands

intent

on circling the cold

plate. have we gone

wrong

in how we live our lives,

or is this the only way.

believing strangely that

tomorrow

could be better.

the maddening crowd

i see a line

growing outside the red

door

of the white walled building,

it's a crowd

of anxious souls,

so i get in line.

i have to find

out what's going on.

i'm a sucker

for such things.

wanting to know what

i don't know.

i don't want to be left

out, hung out to dry,

as they say.

on the outside looking in.

i tap the man in front

of me on the shoulder

and ask him where

this is all going,

he shrugs and says,

he has no clue.

but fine. i want in.

i look behind me,

happy that the line has grown

longer.

i'm way ahead of them.

her lavender soap

it's important

to smell

good, in fact more important

than being

good.

you can fool the world

with the right

perfume

or lotion,

and a hot sudsy bath

with lavender

soap.

what makes a good neighbor

good floors,

good walls, good ceilings

make good

neighbors

in the tall apartment

building.

keeping the music

down and

not cooking

goat

and cabbage, helps too.

preparing for winter

it's a cold

night.

the first snow

has fallen.

these thin summer sheets

won't do,

so i get the enormous

thick

blanket

from the top shelf of the closet

and spread

it over

the bed.

if you were here, i wouldn't

have to do this.

all that unhappy ice cream

she seems lost

and permanently unhappy,

so i take

her out for ice cream.

but still no

smile,

no laughter.

i tell her she looks wonderful

since she broke up

with her boyfriend, Igor.

she's back

to her old self.

i mention the sealed border,

as i lick

my cone of rocky road,

the trade deals,

boys out of women sports,

the lowering

of inflation,

no tax on tips,

or social security,

things are finally looking up.

the stock market is booming.

gas prices falling,

wars winding down,

then she pulls

out a knife,

although it's just a butter knife,

and tells me that if i get

any closer

she's going to

inflict harm onto me.

she's been this way since

the election,

to which i tell her it's only

for another

forty-two more months,

enjoy the ride.

here's a napkin, you've got

a dollop

of butter brickle on your chin.

and why are you

carrying a butter knife

around?

she shows me the buttermilk

biscuits

in her purse. oh.

the best advice i can give

i won't bother you.

no worries dear.

no calls

will come,

no messages, no inquiries

as to your

health

or work.

your

so often

tragic

relationships.

sleep well on my silence,

it's the best

advice

i can give.

the diary of a fly

does

the fly keep time,

have a map,

a diary

of where he's been,

where's

he landed?

or is it all kept

in his

little blue head?

i'll ask him,

if he ever flies by

again.

his heart in snow

the dog

you knew, yes, that one,

the one

in the picture

in your wallet, your

first son,

is now

in snow.

blue eyed,

blurred.

the fetch was such

a long

time ago.

so you hold him.

you hold

him close,

as his heart,

no longer determined,

slows.

how about we slow cook us

it's all about slow

cooking,

about taking

our time

and not rushing things,

and i'm not talking about

just food,

ribs

or chicken,

pot roasts or stew,

i'm talking

about love

too.

the end of the world hot dog

i guess i could, i think,

while staring

at the greasy 

brownish hot dogs

spinning sadly

on the grill at 7-11,

i guess i could eat one,

if it was the end of the world,

if i was really hungry

and close to dying.

but it would take a lot

of mustard and onions,

relish and a hefty bun

to facilitate the first bite

and then a lot of cold water

to wash the regret down.

the Yellow cab down Broadway

as we

speed down Broadway,

the driver

yammering

on his phone in a strange language,

while eating a kabob,

his turban

tilted

and grey,

we strap

ourselves in

while the meter clicks

in rapid

numbers.

his horn

is a constant.

if we don't make it,

i tell her,

taking her white knuckled

hand in mine, it's been

nice knowing

you.

i thought i knew you

i used

to know you. or at least i thought

i did.

i believed in

you,

that you were smart and sweet,

kind.

funny

and bright. but

how things have

changed.

how quickly

your bitterness

has grown.

i was completely

fooled by you.

i've changed my mind.

i don't know you

at all.

red ballerinas

i admire

her

line of flowers, red

ballerinas

aligned

before the bushes.

dancing in

sunlight

with slender green arms,

welcoming

each visitor

who comes along.

the sprained ankle

as i drive

her to the hospital

with her twisted ankle,

she's grateful.

thank you, she says, thank you.

you are so kind

and caring.

we should get married

someday,

okay?

let's not ruin things, i tell her.

let me get the door

and carry you in,

get you out of this rain.

not to worry dear,

i'm sure it's only a sprain.

the Sunday Edition

it's a hard

rain

falling as i leave the grocery

store.

pelting

the black hot street,

so i put my 8 dollar

Sunday

edition of the newspaper

over my head

and shoulders,

thin as it is

and dash to the car.

for once

it's a worthwhile

purchase.

the soggy sandwich

there

was the kid 

in school with cut

carrots

in his lunch box.

sometimes cucumbers

too in

a plastic bag,

shaved of skin, cut

into hexagons.

he had an

egg salad

sandwich with the crust

gone,

the bread

sliced in even

diagonal strokes.

home made

cookies, still warm,

a thermos of chocolate

milk,

and a note,

saying

be a good boy,

love Mom and Dad.

see you when you get home.

i'd stare

at my soggy paper

bag,

with a bad apple

and a baloney sandwich,

and say to myself,

i bet this kid

can't do

five pushups, half

of what i can.

with blood dripping

a spot

of blood on the chin,

clotted

by the white tear

of a tissue,

is just the beginning

of the day.

no fear though.

a small

cut is child's play

these days.

my life without you begins now

my life without you

begins

now,

she tells me in a long white

letter

left on my pillow.

we are done.

finished.

what was will never be again.

the love

i once had for

you

i no longer have. we're

different 

people than who we thought

we were

in the beginning, five

years ago.

so my life without you

begins now,

by the way, i have

some of your things, so i'll

stop by

tomorrow

to drop them off

and perhaps we can talk.

i still have your

mother's ring, your key

and your

dog.

there's also a pot roast

i made

for you on the stove.

just set the temp for 350

and warm it up for twenty

minutes or so.

there's a salad in the fridge.

but remember, my life

without you

begins now.

i'll come by at noon.

let me know if you need anything

at the store.

taking the A-9 Benning Road

the second,

i saw the man fall down

in the street,

being chased

in the rain, 

clubbed for a watch

or wallet

i suppose, 

it was then that i knew i had

the beginning

of a poem,

maybe two or three.

i observed

his face, the fear in his

old eyes,

the way his hat flew off,

his thrown cane. 

i took note of how

no one moved

from their seats

to help him.

then

the scramble of police,

the twirl of their blue

lights,

the siren scream

as the assailants ran

down the dark tunnel

of an alley.

and then quite calmly,

the bus driver

announcing, next stop,

Pennsylvania Avenue,

Archives.

a minor domestic altercation

the morning after,

there was

blood

on the rug, broken glass,

a hole

the size of a man's fist

in the wall.

the phone cord was cut,

the door

broken

open, the knob and latch

on the floor.

a whiskey bottle

turned over,

still dripping tears

of amber.

my mother,

back from the emergency

room

with her glasses held

together

with medical tape,

five months

pregnant,

held her arm out with

a new

cast on, which we all stood

in line to sign.

old men talking about women

we start talking about women

one morning

at our coffee get together

in the breeze way

of the strip mall.

Joe blurts out, when a young

woman walks by, 

that breasts are overrated.

it's all about legs, he says,

or what's behind.

nothing melts my butter more

than a long pair

of legs in fishnet stockings.

i don't know, Zimmy says.

i kind of like breasts. they can

be fun, but not too big.

you don't want a woman with

back problems.

i'm more of a C cup guy says

Charlie. normal, not too little,

not too big,

but sort of bite sized.

what's your take on Yoga 

pants, Bill asks me.

i like them, i say. in fact

whoever invented them

should win the Nobel Prize.

i like how they come in all

colors now too.

our heads turns sideways

as a sweaty yoga class walks by.

 

it's not dark yet

everyone

is scaling down their lives,

downsizing,

selling their

lifelong homes.

the pets gone, the children

grown.

well,

not everyone, but nearly everyone

of a certain age.

they're selling furniture

and moving

into a smaller place.

somewhere

closer to town, with a pool,

a gym,

a lounge.

a man at the door who

tips his hat.

maybe a third-floor condo

with a view

of trees,

the man-made pond.

no more yard work,

no more

painting,

no more stairs to climb.

it's not dark yet, as Dylan says,

but it's getting there.

what is that, a triple A?

there are at least

fifty

or more

batteries in my battery bag

that i keep under

the sink.

every size,

every type, every strange

shape.

and yet,

never can i find the right

one

when the remote

dies.

the red Speedo in July

at ninety-five

my father was still lathering

his leathery

face

with creams.

lotions,

chock full of collagen

and vitamins.

he'd lie out in the sun

for hours

and listen to his radio,

plugged in

by a twenty-foot extension

cord

from the house.

he made a protein

shake

every morning,

fruit and avocados.

he did sit ups, push-ups

in his living room,

stretching his arms high

into the air.

he colored his hair

blonde the way it was when

he was twenty

and sailing the seven seas.

he often bragged that he never

needed a blue pill

when Esther came over

for an afternoon

visit, him

with his red Speedo still on.

the bumpy ride

forget

perfection, forget the idea

of life

being fair,

of things

always going your way.

forget

the fairy tale nonsense

of your childhood,

the Easter bunny

and Santa.

buckle up

butter cup

it's going to be a bumpy

ride.

the hospital visit

i visit my friend Jimmy

in the hospital.

his room is full of flowers

and gift baskets

stuffed with fruit

and candy,

the flies and bees are everywhere.

hey,

he says, as i come in and

give him

a pack of cigarettes and a pint

of whiskey.

when are you getting out

of here? i'm tired of picking

up your mail

and walking your dog.

i don't know. they still can't

figure out what's

wrong with me.

he winks and whispers,

cupping his hand,

i'm fine,

just indigestion from the Mexican

food i had last week,

but i think

i'm in love with the night

nurse, so i'm faking it,

dragging it out until

my insurance man comes by

to investigate.

dude, he says, you have to

check yourself in here.

pull that curtain back,

that bed is empty now, you

can probably take it.

the guy who was in there

was wheeled out yesterday.

this place is a gold mine for babes.

here comes one now with my

lunch.

hello, Vanessa, he says,

this is my friend. he's single

and drives a Lexus. 

she smiles at me and sashays

out of the room.

the Salisbury steak isn't too bad,

but if you want

you can have my Jello.

go ahead dig in, here use

this spork.

will work for food

there is nothing

above,

or below us that we

won't

do

when the stomach growls

the mouth

goes dry

when we feel the bones

beneath

our clothes.

i've lifted many

of shovels,

painted many

rooms

for my crust of bread,

even Pulitzer Prize winner

Maya Angelou

wrote for

Hallmark Cards

for a spell to pay the bills.

the carry on

when i escape,

i travel

light, i'm all about the carry on,

the small

bag,

the short

suitcase

with wheels, i can stuff

my life

easily into such a thing

and shove

it into the overhead.

there's hardly

room for a single memory

when i take a flight

or bus,

or train of here.

she tied me to the bedposts

eventually,

i'll untie this knot, 

this wretched

tangle

of rope

that's holding me

to the bed posts.

arms above me,

legs spread apart.

i'll find her

one day

and get my wallet back,

my watch,

my best suit,

and phone. my hat

and favorite pair of gloves.

it's so disappointing

what Amber has done,

for in the hour that i knew her,

i thought it might be

the beginning

of lasting love.

the yellow kitchen

all moments

have led you here, each

word spoken,

each thought,

each 

person you met and

fell in love

with

and lost, each job you had,

each class

you took,

each turn in the road.

everything has brought you

to where you are now,

sitting in a yellow

kitchen,

brushing a fly away

from your toast.

late night buh bye

tv man,

be funny,

or get cancelled, be

honest

and brave

but see both sides of the story,

or get cancelled,

no need to rant

and rave,

no need to have a daily

parade of angst

and anger,

why disparage half the world

who doesn't

see things your way?

they won't watch.

be funny,

but most of all,

make the owners money.

entertain us before we click

the button and go to sleep.

don't preach.

my new cologne

i go shopping for

a new

cologne.

i've tried them all from Old 
Spice

to Hai Karate,

to Brut,

to Geoffrey Beene,

to Karl Lagar,

but

they all smell too strong

these days,

now that i'm not chasing

skirts at the disco

in my blouse

like shirts, half unbuttoned,

and pastel flair pants.

what's this one?

i ask the clerk,

as i spray a bit onto my wrist

and sniff.

that's called Ambivalent,

she says.

it's neither here nor there.

sort of undecided.

not too strong, but bland

and on the fence.

it's a mild fragrance that says,

you don't give

a damn about a lot of things

these days.

perfect, i tell her, pack me

up a gallon or two,

i'll pull the car up.

in need of more hugs

i'm so depressed,

the young man tells me over

the phone.

i'm blue

and sad,

i don't know what's wrong.

i pause,

and think about it,

then suggest to him

that maybe

it's because you live

in Portland,

and it rains every day,

the sky is a grey wet

rag that never clears.

maybe, just maybe it's

the crime, the trash, the cost

of living,

and perhaps you're drinking

too much beer,

smoking too much weed,

not working,

and playing video games

all day.

no, he says, it's not that at all.

i think it's my childhood.

i wasn't hugged enough.

the subway at night

the subway

tilts

and sways from the side

to side,

as the groan

of the wheels 

and metal

cascades through

the underground.

it's almost

a lullaby

in these flickering

shadows

of lights,

but the fear keeps you

awake,

your stop is still

way down

the line.

the noise downstairs

curious,

but not so curious enough

to get out

of bed

to see what the noise

is downstairs.

a break in,

a raccoon, mice

in the cupboard,

the fridge on the fritz.

the popping

of an old birthday

balloon?

i'll wait it out

a little longer,

maybe i'll fall asleep again

and in the morning

deal with it.

put it on a list

of things

i half care about these days.

let's talk about her horse

her horse, which will later

die

in this poem,

was old.

and yet,

what does love have to do

with age?

was there a Saturday

when he wasn't brushed

and washed,

talked to

and fed by an open hand,

carrots 

and sugar cubes?

was there ever

a moment when

she didn't cry when seeing him,

or whisper

sweet nothings into his ear,

two lovers.

there was no worry

about the barn,

the smell of it all, the flies,

the flock

of cats

keeping the rat population

low,

the hay coming alive

in bold squeaks,

and then

in the far field, in the tall grass,

he lay down

one night

and gave up

his soul, if horses

do possess such a thing.

it was there that the plow

arrived

and swept him under the soft

brown earth.

i see her walking there now.

it's Saturday afterall.

small print

there's a reason

there's small

print

on the can, the box,

the bag,

the insurance papers,

the warranty.

instructions

and waivers

to everything you buy

or use.

they don't want you

to read it.

the smaller the letters

the more

devious

the reason behind

the size of each letter.

the car

dealers know this trick,

the insurance

men,

anyone selling anything,

knows

how to write with the tiniest

of fonts

before printing.

tears on her pillow

my father's last

girlfriend, calls me weekly

to talk

about how she misses my father,

since his death

back in January,

i love him dearly, still,

she says,

with tears in her eyes,

choking up,

but only the good things.

i'm still hurt by some of things

he said to me,

about my waist,

my thighs, and

how he gave me the cold

shoulder,

when he didn't get his way

in bed.

or if i didn't show up on time,

when it was my day

to visit.

he was cheap too, never taking

me out to dinner,

forgetting my birthday,

and i can't forgive him

for the way he

flirted with the cleaning

lady who came on Friday.

but i miss him so much,

don't you?

love me for who i pretend to be

i want you

to love me for who i pretend to be,

not for who i am,

she said,

okay?

we stood

at the altar

about

to say our vows. please, 

she pleaded.

can you just pretend?

i wiped the sweat from

my brow,

biting my tongue,

i could already see the end.

you never know

she saved

every paper and plastic bag

she ever got,

because,

who knows,

stuffing them

behind the microwave,

in the pantry,

the crack between the stove

and fridge.

who knows when they might

be needed.

she felt the same

way about rubber

bands,

and paper clips,

nails and screws of all sizes.

the receipts from

everything she bought,

because who knows.

and all those

shoes

for all kinds of weather,

hardly any room any more

for them all

beneath the bed,

but,

who knows.

and the magazines stacked

tall, Look and Life,

National

Geographic, she'd read them all,

but then again,

maybe she might want to read

them once more,

who knows.

you never know.

light through lace

careful

not to spill,

i climb

the stairs to the back room

where

summer light

has bathed the walls

like

a beautiful dress.

the lace

curtains letting the

sun in.

it seems as if the world

has stopped

for a brief moment.

i'll savor it.

the rental

there

are things left in the shade,

half

in the light,

left

behind.

the open book,

cups

and saucers,

slippers

off the foot.

it's a painting that i don't

want to disturb.

there's no

rush

in this. i'll wait.

Boris and Natasha

i can't remember

a single

year of my life when

we weren't worried about

the Russians.

those sneaky bastards

across the sea.

putting dogs into orbit,

messing with

our heads

all the time.

Sputnik and the KGB.

infiltrating our borders,

our computers

with their devious intentions.

starting wars

just for the hell of it.

the red scare,

the red wave. blah blah blah.

all of them

secret squirrels.

Vodka and Ukraine,

from the cradle to the grave.

grey pigeons in the park

i see men

in the park, older men,

unshaven

men

in long coats,

with socks

that don't match.

buttons

off,

zippers broken.

they don't care anymore

about what

colors they

wear.

or even if it's clean.

they leave the house

and go.

with no one to straighten

their collars,

brush the lint off their

shoulders,

there is no one

to uncuff

their sleeves,

they are pigeons

in the park

on benches, happily alone.

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.