apologies to Paul Newman

finally.

i find a few free hours to get rid

of all the old

salad dressings

in the refrigerator.

i count ten.

some i use a spackling

knife

to pry them

off the shelves.

i pull the trash can

closer

and get on my knees.

i begin.

thousand island,

blue cheese,

bacon ranch and sweet basil.

sorry Paul

Newman,

oil and balsamic vinegar,

five years old, you too

have to leave.

a broom stick cut in threes

they were heavy

wooden windows, i used

a broom handle

cut into threes

to prop

them up.

they had

four over four

sashes with ancient

glass,

the glazing grey,

but the screens had holes,

there were

small

bullet shots in the panes

from

the woods, hunters

hunting

for squirrels, or deer,

or each

other.

they let

out the air,

let in the warm, let in

the winter.

strange how i miss them

now.

how they rattled and whistled.

they spoke to me.

so many broken things

like this

and people

in my life i've tried to

get rid of,

but they've have taken hold.

how to be a writer

start with dirt under your nails,

then read, read, read,

and read some more

until the bindings break.

accumulate ripples of scars,

pink like, some healed, some that will

never heal.

break a bone or two.

lose some hair.

acquire a drinking problem that you solve

and unsolve,

depending on the time of year.

some blood along the way would help.

get fired, get hired, get fired,

repeat until you realize that there is

nothing in this world

you are truly good at.

fall in and out of love like birds do.

stare long and hard into the mirror

until you no longer care.

you're almost ready to begin.

a hard desk will do,

a ream of paper,

a good writing pen,

dispel all notions of fame and fortune.

get away from people

for as long as you can, but remember

you'll need them

later

when the well runs dry.

okay, begin.

Wrong Number

The phone rings

at three a.m. I let it go

five, six, seven times

then pick it up on eight.

It's the wrong number, again.

Someone wants Sylvia.

They want her to come to the phone.

Every night it's the same.

I tell them she's in the shower,

she's on the toilet,

she's taking a goddamn cake

out of the oven,

she's crocheting me a sweater.

I yell out her name

in the darkness of my apartment,

Sylvia, oh Sylvia,

but she's always busy

when they call.

I make sure of that.

She's making a good home here

for the both of us.

I want them to know that.

It seems important.

Takes the edge off.

there's nothing to fear here

the lights are soft

in the waiting room, there's a picture

on the wall

of a family smiling,

their teeth straight

and white,

there's a faux fireplace burning,

despite it being July.

is the wood mahogany?

everything

seems to say all is well,

you'll be fine.

there's no pain here to be found.

there's nothing to fear.

relax,

enjoy our periodicals

before we perform a root canal

on your back

molar.

and then a pleasant child like

woman

appears, dressed in baby blue,

a carnation behind

her ear,

who says your name.

she holds the door

for you as

you follow her into brighter lights

and a long

black chair.

the kitchen phone circa 1968

no one

calls my landline, except for 

telemarketers.

my mother used to,

mostly on Sunday

to ask if i'm still coming over,

but

she's no longer with us.

that would

be a very

long distance call, if she did.

and yet

i keep the black

phone on the kitchen wall,

the long fusilli cord

hanging down,

almost to the floor.

Jane didn't come back

a fun

group of neighbors decide

to go

jump out of a plane

over Orange County.

they've

been practicing for almost

fifteen

minutes at the little airport

near

the produce stand.

most of them

come back, thrilled with it all,

but not Jane,

where's Jane, i ask.

they shrug, and look sad.

chute didn't open,

they say.

it was bad.

but we're going next week again,

are you in.

we have room now

for one more.

roll away the rock

i roll

the big rock in the yard

away from

the fence,

something i imagine

from

the paleolithic age,

the soft black soil

where it sat

is full

of worms,

a garden snake,

a field mouse,

things with a hundred

thin

legs.

there's so much going

on

we don't know

about,

or want to know.

let's go back inside now.

the anatomical weather report

my body

gives me the weather report.

there's

no need for Bill

on channel four,

or Marsha on nine,

or even

the cutie pie Sarah

on five.

my knee tells all,

my sinus

informs me of the rise

and fall

of the barometric pressure.

every joint

in my body tells me

about the storm,

the snow

or rain.

my big toe shouts to

me in pain.

grab your umbrella,

it's about to rain.

there was a cake too

it was

blistering hot day,

a wedding in a field

with a white tent

and an enormous pig

roasting over an open

fire,

on a skew.

slowly

it turned from pink

to a golden

brownish

hue. the meat went grey

and hard.

but there was cake too.

which

saved the day.

a paragraph in a dress

i admire how

everything you need to say

goes unsaid

and yet i hear it

loud and clear,

the quiet

as a mouse attitude

works for you.

the eyes,

rolled,

the brow furrowed,

the twist of your lips.

you're a sentence,

a paragraph or two

in a dress,

a volume

of discourse with just

a simple look.

there's nothing to guess.

filling the void with grey

so much

is vague, a fog clearing

and then

filling the void

with grey again.

our hands

swimming

forward searching

for light.

so much

is unknown, undecided.

and yet,

not so fearlessly

we press on.

the swinging of the legs

i notice lately

that when i'm sitting in a chair

with my feet

not reaching the floor

that i swing my legs

back and forth.

it sort of feels good.

i look down and wonder

what that is about,

my fingers are tapping

the top of the table too

as if i'm playing

an invisible piano.

apparently i'm soothing myself

to ease whatever

current trouble

is bothering me.

i take my phone out,

thankfully, i have my therapist

on speed dial.

in his car eating icecream

i see kale

in his grocery cart,

as he goes through

the list

his wife made for him.

lettuce,

three kinds,

apples and oranges,

pears

and grapes,

organic wine.

plant based meat.

wild salmon

in a can,

and at the bottom

of the pile,

hidden

is his favorite treat.

a tub of Ben and Jerry's

double

chocolate fudge with

nuts,

and one tub

of butter pecan.

i notice the spoon in

his back pocket.

he looks at me

hoping that i didn't see.

i smile, and wink.

it'll be our little secret.

the apology bouquet

i can't decide

on which

bouquet of flowers to buy,

to set

things right.

the apology flowers.

what

merits the occasion.

what

flower will do the trick

and put me

back into her good graces?

will it be roses

again,

a dozen red or white?

daffodils,

perhaps an orchid with

its long

slender stem.

how about a blend.

mix it up with sunflowers,

lilies,

etc., whatever might be

their flower

names.

something potted perhaps,

that will

last a long time,

that she'll have to water

daily,

a reminder of me, that i'm

nice and kind.

the old men sigh when she walks by

she's 69, but can't

give

up her ripped jeans,

her flat

tanned

belly revealed with

the blouse

up high.

the blonde hair

and skinny

thighs.

she's still young and pretty,

at least

from behind.

still making the old

men sigh

when she strolls by.

slip sliding away

we pretend

that so much matters.

that

what we say

and do will continue on

after the grave.

our legacy

will 

survive,

and yet, so far a 

hundred per cent

of people

eventually die,

and everything they did

fades

over time.

they've killed aunt jemima

they've killed

aunt Jemima.

the mighty sword of woke

has

put Uncle Ben in back

of the bus

again,

they've put the Indians

and Redskins

back onto

the reservation,

Pocahontas can no longer

sell butter with

her picture on

the box,

and no longer will we

lick an Eskimo Pie

when the weather gets hot,

or drink

Dixie Beer.

poor Sweeny in her eagle

jeans,

she's about to get her

life ripped

up.

there is no straight line

we yield to the sign,

we go

around, 

we slow down,

we take another route,

the man

with the flare

waves

us by.

the yellow

lights blink.

the detour deters us.

there is no

straight line forward.

good luck out there, young man

are you

insured, the boy asks me,

standing at

the door in

his first suit, brochures

in hand.

hair

parted like the Fuller Brush man

used to do

when he came to the door

with his memorized

spiel

and a vacuum cleaner.

i am, i tell him.

i am insured.

life, health, car and home?

he asks.

yes,

i believe i have all those bases

covered.

but thank you for stopping

by.

good luck with your next

sixty years,

or more.

be careful out there,

life can be hard.

here,

you can keep your card.

less sentimental now

less

sentimental than i use

to be,

though one would think

it would be

the other way around.

but i'm younger now,

less inclined

to save

mementoes,

to preserve memories,

pressing petals

between pages.

less is more these days.

so many

boxes have been emptied,

so much

has been burned

and like ashes, blown

away.

help wanted

when i see

a help wanted sign in a store,

or business,

or at a construction site,

i almost

go in, like i used to do

with peach

fuzz on

my cheeks,

above my lips,

sprouting on my chin.

i was always willing to work,

no matter the hours,

or how hard it was.

the night shift

was fine with me.

i was never a fan of hunger,

or living on

the street.

i liked clothes and books,

the finer things

in life,

and of course, my

Achille's heel,

crazy women.

it hurt, still does

as i stand

here

at the stove, staring

into

the black pot

of clear

boiling water, as if

in a trance,

i remember things

i haven't thought of

in years.

words, an argument

we had.

it was something

that you said.

it hurt.

still does.

don't leave me out here, please

before the Sunday hike,

i load

up my backpack with bug

spray,

bear repellant,

snake

repellant

two cell phones,

fully charged,

a gallon

of water, calamine

lotion,

protein bars,

Neosporin,

a flashlight,

matches,

a map, flares,

a magnifying glass,

binoculars,

a compass, a Swiss army knife,

a 2 pound bag

of bread crumbs to disperse

behind me

as i walk and climb

and

two packs of gum, with a 

Saint Christopher medal

around my neck.

if i'm not back to my car

in two hours,

send help.

on the short list for a Norwegian blonde

as i dislike

people

more and more, finding

faults

in them

that seem irreparable,

i'm all in

on the next phase

of civilization.

robots. androids.

i'm on the short list,

for a Norwegian

blonde

with long legs,

and cooking skills,

sharp

when it comes to

doing taxes

and laundry.

the little fish in my ears

my loss

of hearing, is mostly to my

benefit.

not everything said

is meant to be

heard.

i catch words

in small

numbers,

like dipping a net

into a pond

of little fish.

they wiggle around in

the net

of my ear,

and try to make a meal

of them.

try to make

some sort of edible sense.

they dying of the light windows 8

i find

the old 14 inch laptop

collecting

dust on

the back shelf of the closet.

windows 8.

i scrape

the jelly

jam

and peanut butter off

the keyboard,

stick the cord

in and wait.

a loud siren of continuous

beeps go off.

i give it a good

shake.

either

bombs are about to be

dropped

over the city

or this

thing is dead and needs

to be replaced.

if i were to invent a religion

if i were

to

invent a religion

there would be no more

preachers

with leer jets

and mansions, no toll free

number

to fill their coffers,

no gold chalices

and art from

the Renaissance age,

no hysterical nonsense

with gyrating

bodies

and tossing of snakes,

no robes,

no gowns, no smoke

and mirrors.

it would be exactly

like the Sermon on

the Mount.

sticking the landing in bed

i used to do a back

flip

off the diving board

at the public pool when i was

a boney kid,

waiting for

the girl i had my eye on

to see me

before i made my daring dive.

i'd spring with my

young legs

and spin

into the air, 

heels over head, landing

feet first into blue water

of the pool.

i think

about that dive done

decades ago

as i flop

down on my queen sized bed 

backwards,

jumping from

the floor,

nearly hitting

my head

on the headboard.

okay, okay,

i say to myelf, maybe

i'm not as flexible

as i used to be.

so i try it again, and once

more

until i land it perfectly,

my head hitting the pillows,

my body

landing into the mattress. 

receiving a solid ten

from all the judges,

except East Germany

who gives me a 7.

putting the house up for sale

my new neighbor

is a communist slash

socialist

ala

the squad in congress

and the democratic nominee

in NYC

for mayor.

he's wearing an old

army

uniform

a red beret,

and has a long Castro

like beard.

he's scary

looking, but friendly.

i take him

over a tuna casserole

to welcome

him to the neighborhood,

knocking

on his door.

he answers me with

a bandolero

around his chest

and tells me that he's running

for president

of the condo

board,

and that if he wins there'll

be no more

parking spaces,

no more yellow lines,

no more condo fees,

no restrictions on colors

of paints,

no locks on the doors,

and dogs will be allowed

to roam

free.

anyone can come into

your house

to eat and sleep.

are you with me, comrade?

he says.

ummm, let me run this by

my wife,

i tell him.

we'll see.

the all important third date preparation

i slip

the frozen Swanson

tv dinner

into the oven,

turkey and mashed

potatoes,

gravy

and peas, apple sauce

then turn the knob

to 350

and wait

40 minutes. i

then pull back the foil

to see how

she's doing.

it almost smells like

real food.

my date should be

arriving soon,

so i clear

the coffee table off

and set out some cutlery

and plates.

paper cups

and a box of red wine.

a roll

of paper towels.

i get out

a fat red candle, made

for Christmas

and light the wick,

then draw the shade.

it's the third date after all.

heavy breathing on the phone

i got ninety-two

phone calls yesterday, eighty-nine

of them

were potential

spam

that were actually spam.

funeral insurance,

social security,

Medicare, home improvement,

Lottery scams,

car insurance,

pharmaceuticals,

fake police and firemen

wanting

money.

phony

charity organizations,

most of the calls are from

Jamaica, Nigeria,

Mexico,

Pakistan, and India.

except for the ones from

Annadale, Virginia.

one ex-wife in particular

can't seem to let it go

and move on with her life,

i still recognize

her heavy breathing.

the day the music died

when Elvis

died,

i thought that might be a good

excuse

to call up Kathy

to see if we could reconcile,

maybe weave in

a little sympathetic

small talk.

can you

believe it, i said on the kitchen

phone.

the king is dead.

who?

she said.

the king of England?

no, no.

Elvis,

you know.

you ain't nothing but a hound

dog,

hunka hunka burning

love.

don't step on my blue suede

shoes?

Elvis.

oh, yeah, sure, i remember

him.

you had some of his records.

that's too bad.

maybe he ate too many banana

and peanut

butter sandwiches.

oh well.

i have to go now, there's

another

call coming in

and i have to go iron

some clothes.

the dog adoption process

i take a look

at dog prices. a thousand

bucks,

two thousand,

twenty thousand

clams

for a Dacshund in New Jersey

we used

to pick up pups at the pound

for ten dollars,

or find one

roaming the street without

a collar

for free.

now it's like adopting a kid

from China.

you need papers

and shots,

the dog's next of kin,

an inspection of your house,

a psychological

report. they question

you about

the hours that you keep.

where would the dog eat,

sleep,

pee?

do you know how to trim

his nails,

brush his teeth,

give him heartworm pills

and bathe him?

show us his leash and where

you plan to chain

him to a tree.

wake me when it's over

it's the first

cup

of coffee, the first opening

of the door,

the windows.

letting the dog out.

two eggs

in the pan,

two slices of toast

in the toaster.

the paper

off the porch.

same old same old,

i think i did this all yesterday

and the day

before.

wake me when it's over.

not all of them had red hair

you could

almost

point at the children you

grew up

with

and knew where they were

headed.

not all of them had red hair.

there was something

wild

in their eyes,

a rebellious nature

about them.

something inside

was broken.

they were the boys

and girls who

threw

things out the window

of the school bus.

rarely where you wrong,

and as the years went by

you read

their stories in

the daily

news and saw their 

mugshots

on the post office wall.

the hole in the screen door

the screen

door was never fixed.

i can still hear that violent

slam.

for eleven years,

the dog's

nose and paws,

struck shoes

and boots

pushed

into the wire

mesh

ripping it away from

the wood

frame.

the flies came in.

a feral cat,

a squirrel

or two,

mice crawled through 

the hole

and sparrows flew in.

it made life interesting

at dinner time.

killing us softly

i can still

taste

the strange bitter

after

taste of a cold Tab

soda

in a bottle.

the drink that was

going to

save the world, and keep

fat off our

hips.

make everyone beach

ready

with it's Frankenstein

concoction

of chemicals.

but it was not nearly

as disgusting

as low fat

baked

potato chips

or my mother's menthol

cigarettes.

it's different without her around

i step over

the pair of pants i've left on

the floor,

ignore

the cups

and saucers, three days

old.

i move the books

off the couch and a fishing rod

to sit down

then draw

a smiley face into the dust

on the table.

it's different without

her around.

three saved messages

the instructive

voice

on the phone tells me i have

three old

messages

waiting,

before they're banished

into the ether.

one from an insurance

agent,

selling a bundle,

car, life and home,

another from the Publishers

Clearinghouse,

telling

me about the millions that

i've won,

and the other

from my mother,

inquiring if i'll be over

for dinner

when

Sunday comes.

from the same mother

there's sober

Mark,

and drunk Mark, two people

in the same

body,

sharing the same mouth

and eyes,

teeth,

heart

and soul.

each fighting for the floor

in their own

strange way,

opposites

from the same mother.

one happy,

one sad,

one buying a round for everyone

before

he goes out the door.

three eggs cracked

three

eggs cracked into

the cup

stirred

and she's in her element.

the pan

growing hot,

with sweet cream butter

gurgling,

her ambitious herbs

on

the sill,

in white pots,

the kitchen rug, saying

home,

beneath

her slippered feet,

it's a picture

in the making.

one i'll keep.

invasion of the body snatchers

i call up my old friend Joe to see

if he wants

to go to the park to throw

the old pigskin

around.

football season is about to begin.

he's been married

for a year now.

he hesitates, and cups his phone,

then whispers,

i'm not sure if i can go, he says,

Melinda wants me to vacuum

and iron

some clothes, then help her

make a loaf of sourdough bread,

we just got a batch of starter yeast

in the mail

from Oregon.

i have to help her make some signs

too, for the anti-tariff and No Kings march

on Saturday,

plus it's muddy out and i don't

want to upset her

by tracking mud into the house.

and by the way, call me Evan now.

Melinda said,

that i should use

my middle name from now on.

it's more poetic and kind,

less aggressive than Joe.

Joe is too masculine.

dude, Joe is your father's name,

Joe is your grandfather's name.

i know, i know, but

she's helping me get in touch

with my feminine side.

we do yoga and breathing exercises

together every morning.

what the hell are you talking about?

i ask him.

do you want to throw the ball around,

or not?

it's going to be a great season,

this year.

we finally have a QB that can sling it.

we can grab a beer and a burger

over at Mike's afterwards.

please, don't raise your voice like

that, he says.

you're speaking at a very low vibration 

and it's affecting my

emotional state.

i've evolved. i'm a better man now.

we go to couples counseling,

sometimes i go alone to talk about

my childhood

and my feelings.

Melinda and i like to sit out back

as the sun goes down,

drinking our organic wine,

and listen to

Dan Fogelberg music and Bread

while we read Mary Oliver

poems together.

Good God, i yell into the phone,

snap out of it dude,

snap out of it.

she's got you by the you know what,

you are totally whipped now,

aren't you?

wake up, come to your senses.

you are so freaking whipped.

oh my God, she's coming, i have

to hang up now, he says.

please don't tell her that we talked

if you ever run into her. okay?

it'll be no sex for a month.

i still have her snow shovel

there's

mint growing on the side

of the stoop.

Annie

planted it back in

1998,

before she moved

and got

married.

i think of her in

the spring,

after the snow melts,

when the air is full

of sweet mint.

i still have her snow

shovel, 

it's in the hall

where i walk by it

every day.

i've never recycled, so shoot me

i probably

drink

too much coffee,

eat too

much fatty

food

and pastry,

drink

too much gin and smoke

too many

cigarettes

and have flings with

crazy women

i meet in

bars.

i rarely

exercise and never

back up

my computer, or

make my bed.

i'm careless with my money,

irresponsible

and never recycle,

or vote,

but hey.

i'm trying to be a better

person.

once vice

at a time.

actually only the recycling

part is true.

how dare you wave your hand like that and own a dog

how dare

you own a dog, do you know

who else

had a dog,

Hitler had a dog, so did

Mussolini,

and Pol Pot.

Chairman Mao

used to eat dogs for

breakfast.

and those jeans you're

wearing, 

do you want to know who

else wore blue

jeans and had blue

eyes and blonde hair,

Ma Barker did,

the gun moll from the 30's.

do you know that Eva Braun

had blonde hair?

that's right,

the Fuhrer's girlfriend.

and don't get me going

about all those pretty 

princesses on parade floats

waving their hands.

you know who else use to wave

their hands like that,

in that kind of salute,

sticking their arms straight out?

take a guess.

go on.

take a guess.

how dare they wave their

hands like that.

a heartfelt apology

i'm sorry, 

i truly am,

my hand is on

my heart with regret,

i sincerely apologize

if i haven't 

offended you yet.

but the day is young.

i'll dig deep.

i promise to try harder

to find something

to write about

that triggers you.

please be patient,

i'm working on it.

no worries,

i'm sitting here now

doing my tik tok research.

there's always something

crazy on the left

to make fun of.

lunch in the dying light

it was a ridiculous lunch.

vanilla wafers,

popcorn,

cut up peaches and apples,

lemonade

and crackers with

Philadelphia

cream cheese.

there was a shotgun

leaning in

the corner

next to a rusted typewriter.

a copy of Ariel

was on the table.

the Diary of Anne Frank.

i didn't know where to start

while i sat there,

elbows

on the vinyl tablecloth,

a picture of Ernest Hemmingway

staring down at me

in the dying light.

despite the score

we'll do the best

we can,

we'll make

the most of it, she tells me.

sure we're poor now,

but give it time,

we'll be fine.

you used

to be a cheerleader

in high school,

didn't you? i ask her.

how did you

know?

i knew because even when

your team is losing

you see

the silver lining.

phased out of the family

i see

my wife at the store,

she's with

another man,

my daughter is there,

my son too.

my dog is in his car.

i watch them

as they go down the aisles

buying

the food

that i like.

he reads to her a note,

a list

that he's written down

in a black leather bound

book.

the man

is tall.

taller than me,

he has more hair, he's

younger,

he seems to have money,

in his grey

suit.

wearing a Harvard ring

on his hand.

there's an expensive

watch on his wrist, when

he laughs,

which he laughs a lot,

i can see his perfect

teeth.

he's a handsome man,

a clever man.

he has my family now.

strangely,

i understand.

i put back my can of spam

and leave.

genie in a bottle

i rub

the bottle that i find

lying on the beach.

maybe,

there's a genie

inside,

agreeing to give me

a few wishes.

so i rub it hard, but

nothing,

no beauty comes out

calling me

master,

agreeing to make my life

better.

just a tiny crab,

that scurries asway when

i pour him out.

three feet of snow

it was a blinding snow

as we trudged

up the highest hill in town,

deep

snow,

icing the streets,

making the power lines

sag,

but we didn't care, what was

there to worry about?

we had

our sleds,

we had our plastic boots

with metal

snaps,

our snug hats and gloves

made from

socks.

we had the promise

of no

school tomorrow.

maybe two days if the

the blizzard would last.

one home to go home to

the distance

between

rooms, between beds,

between

chairs

at the small table

in the dining room,

the sofa,

the picnic table in the yard

wasn't much.

there was little

elbow

room, brother against

brother,

sisters, knee against

knee.

we were close and yet

sadly not so close

anymore,

the miles and time,

a myriad of differences

have

pushed us away

from one another.

without a mother 

to put her

arms around us,

there

no longer is one home

to go home to.

baby formula on the stove

there was always

a pot

of baby formula on the stove

while

we ate at the small

Formica

table with

our tuna sandwiches

and potato chips,

drinking

our cokes.

there was a radio on,

always,

with my mother

holding a baby,

singing

Tony Bennett songs.

three quarters then home

three quarters

took you a long way back

then,

the ten cent

call, the nickel ice-cream,

a dime

for a bus ride

across town.

but still enough to watch

the black and white

peep show

on 9th street,

then a flick at the bijou,

a burger

on the way home,

a coke

from the red machine,

before walking

home.

the community college writer's workshop on Tuesday night

Lisa,

in her tin foil hat,

was working on a script for Star Trek,

Joe

was deep into his fictionalized

auto-biography

of Thomas Jefferson

and his slave

girlfriends,

Tammy, in her short dress

and heels,

was writing poetry

for the Mahogany Label

at Hallmark.

Marcus, was working on

a three act play about coffee

beans

in Columbia.

the cojoined twins,

Bobby and Louise

were tackling a joint venture,

an expose

on overfishing for sturgeon

in the Black Sea.

whereas i turned in a short

story

about my third wife.

a Shakespearean comedy.

the all-saints bracelet

before

we fooled around,

she took

off her all-saints bracelet

and set

it on the nightstand.

she left it there.

i called and told her

that i had it.

she said no worries,

i have another.

keep it.

it's yours.

eventually it broke

apart,

St. Christopher

and Stephen, Paul,

and Mary,

like shiny little candies

they dance around

whenever

i pull out the drawer.

no green thumb

when i look

at the back yard, 

i see the overgrown weeds,

the indefinable

bushes,

plants, baby trees.

vines and thickets.

i see no hope in this yard,

i have no

vision of what it all

could be.

i need to meet someone

with hope,

someone with a dream.

Ernie in his compression socks

i visit

the old man in his compression socks.

his black

beret tilted on

his head,

his aviator sunglasses

snug around his ears.

the television is on

but he's busy

with a Rubik's cube.

make yourself a drink, he says.

so i do,

then sit across from him.

are you good?

he asks.

everything okay?

i know my daughter is a strange

one to say the least

and is on 

a fast road to hell,

but hang in there. it'll end

soon. try not to worry.

be well.

this too shall pass

you have

to quit, give up,

surrender

in order to have peace

at times

throw

up the white flag

of discontent

and accept people for who

they are,

surrender to

the situation you are in.

you can't change

them.

it's all temporary.

be still,

be quiet, breathe,

be free again.

the summer home run

you

knew

the second the ball hit the bat

that it was a good

swing,

a solid strike

wood against ball and that

over the fence it

would go

in a fine arc

over the fence into

the deep

woods

of summer

while you, in a slow

gait,

savored the moment,

rounding the bases,

aglow.

the summer lights

it was so easy to cup

fireflies

in our hands

as children

on the summer lawn.

racing in

our bare feet.

the fading light,

fading

faster as our mother called

us in.

and here we were,

with mason

jars full

of miracles, 

with slow flickering

amber tails,

trapped for our own

strange pleasure.

lids pierced

so that they could breathe.

even now it feels like sin,

their beauty being

so brief.

the critic you have to sleep with

i need a new title

for this

poem,

help me, i ask her,

as she

reads it for the fourth

time,

her glasses on the tip of

her nose.

it's not good, she says,

rattling the poem

in the air.

please tell me it's

not finished, right?

i think you need to work

on it some more.

it's a draft, correct?

hello, i'm talking to you.

no, i tell her,

taking the page from her hand

and balling it up.

i toss it across the room,

where the dog

chases it and eats it slowly.

words, dripping

from his mouth.

never mind.

i don't know why

i let you read my poems.

me either,

she says.

they stink. when i read a poem

i want

to be moved,

enlightened.

your stuff just doesn't do

it for me.

sorry. i know the truth hurts,

but so be it.

anyway, i'm starving.

have you thought about dinner

tonight?

Chinese? i'll get the menu

off the fridge.

forget Ozempic, here's how you do it

i blame

it on emotional eating,

actually

not eating

in how i got back to the weight

i weighed

in high school.

after the heart breaking

break up,

i could see my abs again,

i could almost

touch the rim,

run faster,

i was a fish in water when

i had to swim.

food just wouldn't go in.

i fit into all my favorite

clothes again.

i tried to call her to thank her.

but she wouldn't

pick up the phone,

then blocked me,

five more pounds were lost

by the weekend.

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.