i have no one to blame

i've been

cranky all day, but i'm not

sure why.

maybe the lack of sleep

from the night

before,

the weather,

too much coffee and lack

of real food,

i'm not

sure.

i wish i had someone to blame

this bad mood on.

but i've gotten rid

of the usual suspects,

so i have no one

to pin it on.

you've lowered your expectations about me

i can tell

that you expect more out of me.

it's just a feeling,

although when

you roll your eyes, and sigh,

i get it.

sitting there

with an empty plate,

holding a fork

and knife.

no need to say a word.

once more

i've

burned the chicken in the oven

and set off

the smoke alarm.

the Pulitzer collected poems

i wanted

this book of his collected poems,

(name withheld)

to stir

me.

to whip me into some sort

of poetic

frenzy,

to chain me to my chair,

not eating

or drinking for hours,

ignoring

the phone,

the tapping of friends

at my window,

just locked into the words

set before me,

as i turn the pages.

but no,

although it's heavy enough

to keep the door

from swinging

closed, when set upon

the floor.

the smell of fresh cut grass

rarely

does anyone tell you that they love

their job,

that they can't wait

to get back

to work on Monday.

9 am sharp.

they never

tell you how they love taking

the bus

to the train

and then the five block walk

in the wind

and rain,

or how much

they love

their boss, or work mates.

but the new car

and bright green grass

in their yard

seems to make up for most of it.

something bad is about to happen

it was

a weird day. people were actually

smiling,

they seemed happy

for no

reason at all.

they were polite

and courteous.

they said hello when walking by.

tipped their

hat,

or nodded,

saying things like,

nice day,

isn't it?

or, enjoy your walk.

i wondered if i should go home

right away,

feeling that

something bad was about

to happen.

the lady holding the bag

i wave

out the window

to a woman

walking by with her dog,

she's holding

a plastic

bag full of what looks

like tree bark,

but isn't.

she's dressed to the nines,

in her heels

and Sunday

finest.

she's wearing a peach-colored dress,

a broad white

hat,

a pearl necklace.

she waves back with the hand

holding

the bag as

her dog lifts his leg

against

my lamp post.

he looks up at me

after scratching

furiously at the grass,

then they both move on.

when waiting on trees

waiting is hard.

waiting for the day to end

and night

to begin, or in

being patient as you stand at the bus

stop,

waiting for the bus

to arrive.

it's difficult waiting for someone

to stop

talking

so that you can speak,

waiting for the mail

to come,

the red flag up

on the old metal bin,

for the x-rays to come back

from your doctor.

waiting

for fish to bite,

as you sit on a rock,

your line

in the water.

waiting is tough, waiting

to grow up

and be taller,

to be someone

you're meant to be,

waiting for the phone to ring,

to have more

money,

a house, a wife, a kid, a dog,

maybe a shady

oak tree.

waiting is hard,

especially when waiting

on trees.

three hours late for dinner in Baltimore

it took me three

hours

to find

her, the girl

in Baltimore,

down by Fells Point.

but finally

i did, though late for dinner.

she served me

her go

to dish,

which was salmon.

it sat on the table

dry as

parchment paper,

a long dyed

strip of farm raised fish

from Kroger's,

made pink,

fried

in a pan

with oil,

then topped off with her mother's

dill

sauce.

my car was towed

that night,

and 

the bone may

still be stuck in my throat.

have i told you that it

was raining too?

yes.

it was.

a cat with nine lives

i'm disappointed

in myself

as i look back on the mistakes

i've made,

the people

that i've allowed

into my life,

to steer my way.

what was it that allowed

me to be 

so weak, so easily

persuaded to go to places

that i didn't want

to go?

following

their dark paths.

have i learned

what i've needed to learn.

i hope so.

there's only one more life

to go.

a better life to come

who is

that in the picture, the young

face,

the hair,

the legs and arms,

the fatigue

of work

on his face. his pockets

turned out,

every penny

spent.

asleep.

fast asleep with his

clothes,

his boots still

on.

his hands unwashed.

lost in a dream of a better

life

to come.

cradle rocking

we worry

about our children

in the cradle, rocking

them slowly,

but even as the grey

arrives

in their hair,

and their bellies

fill up

with the world.

we

want them to be safe,

to be smart,

to be successful, and yet

at times

you get the feeling

they when it comes to you,

they don't really

care.

they expect

all things concerning you

to be well.

nothing is lost

even

the wrong turn,

is not

wasted upon us.

each

hour

lost is not lost,

but part

of it.

the traffic stop,

the long

lines

at the store,

the buffering of the screen

you want

to be on.

each is

a thread

in the fabric of your

life.

nothing is

wasted

in the right frame of

mind.

it's a mad mad world

the world

is a nervous wreck,

the therapy

lines go around the block.

the psychiatrists

are running low on crazy pills.

liquor stores

are running out of 

bottled courage.

everyone

has a tic,

a blinking eye,

a nervous twitch,

a lip

they bite until it bleeds.

feet are being tapped

like Ginger Baker

on drums,

hair is thinning, people

are overeating,

getting fat.

the world is spinning

way too

fast.

something has gone terribly

wrong.

the Visa card

i reach

into my wallet for a credit card,

but it's hot.

it's on fire,

it puts

blisters on my finger.

the numbers are almost

worn down.

i look

over at my wife,

sitting

in the big chair doing her

nails,

her tiara on,

a new mink stole wrapped

around her.

she looks at me,

and smiles,

says, what?

the disco ball at Cracker Barrel

i ride my horse over to the Cracker

Barrel

establishment

for some vittles.

i've been herding cattle

all day,

and i need me some

greasy fried chicken

and mashed potatoes

with a slice of peach cobbler

for dessert,

and a cup

of coffee before i hit the trail again.

but it's not the same.

i see no barrels, no old Joe

in a rocking chair

with his dog.

it's looks like

burger queen inside.

the walls are pink

and there's a disco ball spinning

over the tables.

there's a rainbow flag

on the wall

with a Palestinian flag

beside it.

they ask me what my pronouns
are as i take my

hat off

and knock the dust off my chaps.

i tell them to F off.

where's Marge and Kenny?

i ask,

where's Jimmy Bob

behind the grill,

and Sally Sue the grandmom

who never leaves here,

with one tooth?

why are there pictures of

Kamala and tampon Tim on 

the walls?

what the hell is going on here?

i skedaddle,

hop on my horse

and ride off.

reluctantly i stop off at

Whole Foods.

saying farewell to the mint green tile circa 68

the salesman

is early

with his knock at the door.

it's a steady rapping

of knuckles,

but not aggressively,

sometimes

it's all about the knock

when judging someone.

quickly

i find

a pair of pants

and answer.

a tall brown haired

shaggy

fellow in a company

shirt appears,

a labrador retriever

of a man,

we shake hands.

two bathrooms for the price

of one,

he offers

sitting down with his iPad.

showing me

his glossy brochure

and pictures

of what my new loo

will look like after all

is said and done.

am i ready

for the old 1968 bathrooms

to be gutted

and made new,

to have them enter the next

century?

they were installed when

Nixon was in the white house,

Nixon.

boo.

i am ready, so

sadly,

i say goodbye to the leaky

faucets,

the drips,

the rusted tub,

the chipped tiles,

the grout full of mildew.

the toilets that would 

stubbornly flush.

i throw no party, but i'm done

with them.

the fading suns

we want to stay longer,

the sun low

but still warm, the summer

drawing

to an end,

(how many more exist?)

the ocean at last less cold.

our feet in the sand

our old chairs

the orange fabric

thin and

faded, but

still holding us steady.

we should go now,

we should

get on the road before dark.

take down

the umbrella, roll up

the towels,

the blanket,

but no.

we cling to the end of summer

like a cliff.

we can't seem to let go.

operator, please hold

i fall

in love with the woman

on the phone.

she sounds

so sweet and innocent

as if

she's never been kissed.

she's a songbird

on the sill

spreading her wings.

dutifully

i listen to her go on.

she's smart

and

quick, funny, with a clever

wit.

i think i want

to marry

this girl, this woman

on the other end of the line.

but then

she puts me on hold

for hours,

then click.

i don't need no good for nothing man

the purple

haired lady next door with a nose

ring

and nineteen visible

tattoos,

on Ozempic,

tells me that she doesn't need

a man.

i don't need no good for nothing

man.

i can do whatever

they can do,

and do it better.

although i see on the street,

parked outside her door,

the fire trucks

and plumbers

the electricians,

the paramedics

and roofers arriving daily to

bail her out of trouble.

nearly all men.

these boots are made for walking

i used

to wait for the other foot to drop.

for

the final blow.

for the end

of things to occur.

i was on

eggshells.

scared and uneasy,

uncomfortable

with the way things were going.

waiting for that

boot to hit the floor.

was it today,

tomorrow?

another year?

and then i realized

it was

my foot that had to fall.

a walk down Primrose lane

it's raining out,

so

i get on my hands and knees

and begin

to clean out

the stove.

the blackened

walls,

the racks,

shiny with grease

and spills.

i have old towels and scrub

brushes,

sprays

and chemicals.

i go to it with my mask on.

it's an archaeology

dig.

i find

some chicken bones,

some gravy

turned to glue,

the overflow of stews.

the charred

remains, the DNA

of spareribs. old cheese

strung

from the roof.

scraps of tin foil from all

the Swanson tv dinners

are scattered about.

it's a walk down memory

lane.

of holidays,

and happy days.

before everything caught fire.

the music man in California

the song

and dance man in a white

suit,

the governor

of California

does a little number for the crowd

while the oil

in his hair drips down.

i want

to lead you,

he shouts out as

he clicks his black and white spats

across

the shiny floor.

he grabs a silver cane

and does a little tap dance.

i want to be the one to save

you from

the orange dragon,

a wanna be King Farouk.

yes,

i know, i know that California

has burned

down to the ground,

he says,

and that the homeless sleep

everywhere,

on the streets,

in the parks,

in our school zones.

drugs are plentiful

and we're a little slow in building

the twenty years

train, despite spending billions

of your tax

dollars.

but i can get the job done,

i'll fill up those reservoirs

with water

this time. every street will have

a hydrant.

i'll pick up the trash and syringes,

hose down

the sidewalks full of urine

and excrement.

don't listen

to what i say,

my double talk,

or how my hands swing about

like a flimflam man.

i'm your hero.

i'll save you from common

sense

and law and order.

it's time to open the prison

doors and let

our people go.

tear down those border walls

we need more voters.

it's time for more chaos and higher

taxes.

boys in girls' bathrooms,

free sex changes

for all democratic donors.

it's time. it's overdue.

now let's all sing us a song.

come on, join in,

we shall overcome.

it's kumbaya for me

and kumbaya for you.

Namaste my brothers and sisters.

now let's strike up

that mariachi band

and dance like no one is watching.

with buckled boots dripping

did we pray

for more snow with our knees

on the hard

kneelers

at St. Thomas More,

our wet mittens

on the pews,

with buckled boots

dripping

on the holy floor?

we did. but

the mothers and fathers

beside

us prayed too,

they prayed

for the snow to end,

for the plows

to come through

and for school to begin

again.

clicking the ruby slippers

i send away

for a pair of ruby slippers

on Amazon.

for men

though, not the girly kind.

maybe

wingtip style.

i want to go home

that badly.

just three clicks and i'll

be back,

i'll be in my jammies,

my cup

of cocoa in hand,  a plate

of cookies

on the nightstand.

the dog curled up by

the fire.

a book or two to peruse,

and you.

asleep

on my shoulder.

three clicks. not one,

not two.

Abe Lincoln's face

with one stamp left

in the drawer,

i have a decision to make.

which bill

gets it.

which envelope will i press

Abe Lincoln's face

to the right corner?

how badly do i need electricity,

or water,

Netflix

or car insurance.

that devil

Verizon.

does my mother really need

another

mother days card

from me?

i flip a coin.

Sunday morning church bells

we don't pray

enough.

we don't get on our knees

and thank

God enough.

we lie in bed on Sunday

morning and cover

our ears

to mute the church bells.

we're selfish and mean,

judgmental,

ungrateful.

angry

and sad for little or no reason.

we're a grumpy

lot.

small minded at times

and lazy.

and yet, it seems that

He hasn't given up

on us.

although the floods and earthquakes,

hurricanes and fires,

have me worried,

not to mention

that approaching black funnel

cloud in the distance.

the manager's special

why

is this meat so cheap?

tagged

with a bright red sticker,

manager's special.

has it gone

bad,

has it been bleached

to kill

the bacteria,

have mice bitten into

this large cut

of angus beef?

what's the deal

on this amazing deal

on red meat?

yesterday it was 18.95

and today

it's five dollars.

it smells okay

when i put the thin

cellophane to my nose.

i see no

green

around the edges,

no curdling of fat,

no teeth

marks from a dog,

no larva having a feast.

should i buy it, or move

on to the bread,

also marked down

with a broken seal,

now solid as a rock.

how about these dented cans

of soup, edible

or will i die

tomorrow as i hang on for

dear life

to the porcelain wheel?

reduction in pets

goldfish were 

the starter pets, along with

the ant farm,

the mini turtles,

and gerbils.

frogs.

i eventually worked my

way up to cats

and dogs.

but i'm down to a plant

on the window

sill now,

a green plastic one

glistening in the sun,

a pet that doesn't

care if i'm not at home.

easing into the far right lane

i understand

the right lane now. the slow

lane,

the lane

for the elderly going

up to the store

to get a quart

of milk

and some apples.

to the post office for stamps,

to the lake

to toss bread out

for the ducks.

i get it now, the slow

lane,

away from the madness

of the young.

taking the CNN survey

i get a call

from CNN,

it's a survey asking questions

about the current

state

of affairs of the world

and country,

economics

and 

the abandonment of woke

policies,

including

the sweeping

new

embrace of common sense

and peace.

the closing of the border,

more cops

on the street.

no men in women's sports.

i tell the girl

asking the questions,

it's wonderful.

on a scale of one to ten,

i give it a ten.

she laughs and says wrong

answer,

then hangs up,

refusing to count my response

for the poll.

revenge is a lifelong mission

it's human

to want revenge on those

that have slighted you,

made fun of you,

lied to you

and cheated.

those that have treated

you poorly over

the years.

in fact,

i still want to get even with

Billy Jones,

the bully who sat

behind me in the third

grade,

who daily

stuck his wet finger

into my ear.

not so grand grandmothers

not all grandmothers

and grandfathers

are truly

grand.

some less so than others.

some are not

grand at all,

but mean and spiteful

old people

who have left me out

of their will

despite

eating all the stale cookies

they made

and on their birthdays

sending them

a Hallmark card.

a winter sun

the lace

curtain alters

the unlit room.

the dapple

of winter

white

decorates the walls

and ceiling

and me

unexpectedly

sitting here with 

cold hands

on a keyboard

about to write.

suddenly

it comes.

finding new role models for young men

i hear

the little cub scout sitting behind

me

at the stadium

asking

his father,

why is that man dancing

with the cheerleaders,

and dancing

like a girl?

i think he's wearing

lipstick and has purple

glitter on.

the man sighs, and says, well son.

that's the way

it is now.

you don't have to be a girl anymore

to do girl stuff.

you don't have

to play football anymore,

be the quarterback

or a tough guy

on the line.

sometimes

you can put on your short shorts

grab a pom pom

and entertain the crowd

with your

dancing skills.

now eat your hot dog.

but isn't it hard being a girl,

the kid says,

like mom,

the hair,

the make-up, always shopping,

and talking on the phone,

looking in the mirror

all the time?

no, not for them.

that's how they roll.

hey, let's throw the ball around son

when we

get home, okay?

maybe lift some weights?

grille some red meat

on the patio outside.

can we practice dancing too, dad,

like that guy?

into the high shelf they go

it's an old people thing,

the saving

of rubber bands,

twisters,

pencils and receipts,

loose string. they throw

nothing away.

everything has value

they say.

those plastic bags,

the paper bags

and boxes,

folded neatly between

the fridge

and wall.

chipped cups and plates,

bent silver ware.

you never know, they say.

so true, i think, as i put

the empty jars and bottles,

safely away.

a summertime stroll through the park at midnight

it's a peaceful

night

in the city.

it hasn't been this quiet

since

the 1950's.

not a single gunshot is heard,

not a scream,

or squeal

of tires,

not a siren wailing

in the air.

shame that it took an army

to calm things

down

and make

it safe again to walk

the streets

of the city.

look, there's a park bench

with no one asleep

on it,

let's go sit over there.

so happy together

the song

is stuck in my head.

it's with

me all day

as i go about my life.

imagine

me and you, i do.

so happy

together.

i drink my coffee, 

eat my eggs,

then walk

the dog,

so happy together,

if i should call

you up,

invest a dime,

and you say you belong

to me

and ease my mind,

i pick the newspaper

up of the sidewalk,

then go to work.

i'm on the bus

staring out the window.

so happy together,

i think about you day and

night,

all the time,

so happy together.

the only one for me is you,

and you for me,

so happy together,

how is the weather?

where will the photos go?

when

you finally land in the house,

that becomes

your true

home,

after years of being

a vagabond

you let out a deep sigh

of relief.

finally.

this is it

this is where you'll live

until you die

or they drag you out

against your will.

it's not a somber thought at all.

instead you

wonder where

to put the couch,

the lights,

the pictures on the wall.

where will

the bookcase go?

which photos will make it

to the mantle?

in spite of things

we live

in a world of failures.

machines

break down over time.

lights

die,

batteries,

tools get worn out,

the fence falls,

the gate comes off its

hinges.

bulbs go dark.

we have to take the stairs

when 

the elevator

stops.

the escalator refuses to take

us up

or down.

ships sink,

airplanes fall from

the sky.

we're always surprised,

but we go on

in spite of it all,

don't we?

the next kiss will be our first kiss

let's start over,

okay?

let's begin again, go back to

the start

as if we never

met.

the next kiss will be 

our first kiss.

let's erase the past,

forget

the wrongs, the things

unsaid,

the things

we wish we hadn't said.

are you with me?

or is it too late,

are you already gone?

the new dog is on the clock

we miss

the old dog.

the one

in all our family photos,

the oil

painting of him

over the mantle.

the one we buried ceremoniously

in the back yard.

the twelve

year old dog that

we all loved.

we miss his bark, his muddy

paws,

his whining at the stove,

and table.

his wet cold nose.

we miss the way

he slept 

beside us,

the way he fetched the ball,

the way

he rolled over

and sat on his hind legs

to beg.

this new dog,

he's just not the same,

he has some big shoes to fill.

he's on the clock,

even

at six weeks old.

her black leather outfit with matching boots

we're very different.

she likes

to climb mountains, jump

out of planes,

camp out in the woods.

chop wood and grow vegetables

in her garden.

she's not afraid

of mud, or blood.

she owns three guns

and a cross bow.

leather is her favorite fabric,

which she wears,

skintight.

so there's that

to save the day.

finding satisfaction in drops

there are

times when you have a hankering

for something.

(if hankering is still a word)

something

sweet,

just a dab

of something, perhaps

maple flavored,

but you don't want

a whole stack

of pancakes,

or a pint

of ice-cream, or three 

maple iced donuts.

you just want

a smidgen

on your tongue.

a drop.

just enough to satisfy your

longing

and then move on.

waking up in a ball of sweat

there

are mornings that you are so happy,

so glad

that the dream

you just

had wasn't real.

it's a relief

to be back in your own

bed,

your own home.

lying there

alone.

thank God, that's over

and done with.

she's really gone.

difficult driving on Prince street

there's one street

in the old

quaint town where they've kept

the cobblestones,

the rail

tracks

going down to the wharf

that no

longer exists, nor

do the wooden

ships.

it's a throwback street

to olden

times.

the men wear wigs,

the women

four layered gowns.

there's a candle

lit in every window.

kids are pushing wheels

along with

sticks,

over there on the porch

is grandma moses

with her butter churn.

i just heard a rooster crow,

the moo of a Jersey

a cow.

the plump berry running

it's a movie

of her

in a thick red coat, running,

like

a plump

berry in the winter cold.

down

the sidewalk,

to the door

where her mother waves

to the father

holding

the camera,

standing

like Fellini in the yard.

so much of her life,

her story

yet to be told.

VHS tapes

do i want

to see

thirty years ago, saved  in

the boxy

plastic

VHS tapes. i do. i do.

so i send

them off

in the mail, all twelve

of them,

recordings from over

three decades

ago. each

to be made into digital content

to be forever

viewed.

will there be sadness,

joy,

sweet memories. perhaps.

maybe sorrow too.

we'll see.

we'll see.

away they go.

irrational thinking blinded by hate

who could be against

ending

wars,

reducing crime, securing

a border,

lowering taxes

for the middle class and poor.

who would say

no to no tax on tips,

or on social security checks

and eliminating fraud?

who could be against

making food

healthy

by removing sugar

and chemicals, seed oils,

all the things

that make us sick?

who would be against

obeying the laws,

supporting the police,

ending discrimination

on campuses

and jobs?

who could be against

keeping boys out of women's

sports

and bathrooms.

not allowing children to

become what they're not

but cutting things off?

who could be against any

of this?

go on, take a wild guess.

this is how they kiss in France

the girls

were always way ahead of the boys.

they knew

stuff

you wouldn't know

for years

to come.

they were wise and more

adult like

despite being the same age.

it astounded you

that they

would know how people kissed

in France

as you played spin the bottle

in your mother's

basement.

Florence nightingale

she was a rescuer,

birds

with broken wings, dogs

and cats

in cages, strays

wandering the woods,

the streets.

people too.

anyone with a tear in

their eye,

a cut, a wound.

a broken heart.

show up with a limp

and a sad

story to tell,

and she was there for you.

i know, i know

there are

sounds i will know and remember

even on

the last

of day of my life,

lying

in the bed that holds me.

the creak

of the stairs as you

carry up

tea,

the wind rattling the shutter

that was never

fixed.

the plumbing, each pipe

an out of tune

instrument.

a beginners blow into

a tuba.

the neighbor's dog barking

at the mailman,

children

on the street, noisy crows.

the sound the bed makes

when you

sit beside me.

your sigh,

as you take my hand,

saying,

i know, i know.

too much of a bad thing

it's raining,

or about to, so it seems.

there's

no light outside

the window.

a blanket of grey

gone black.

even

indoors

there's a sense of gloom

and clouds,

with a heavy

deluge about to begin.

perhaps

i shouldn't be around you

anymore.

i've overstayed.

of one mind

a clamor of birds

lift

themselves

into the sky,

a shadow on wind in flight.

as one,

they fly,

turn, go straight.

left

then right.

together

without words

they seem to be of one

mind.

beware of such life.

the good side of the bed

i wake

up on the good side of the bed.

it used

to be her

side of the bed,

but no longer.

in fact

the whole bed is mine now.

top to bottom,

side

to side.

i own

the bed posts,

the mattress, the pillows.

there is no

bad side

anymore.

i've won.

forever friends

i'll see you

when you get here,

no sooner,

no later, not if,

but when.

there is no clock attached

to us,

no day

or time,

no month or year.

we're beyond all that.

forever

friends.

we just

arrive

when we appear.

where are they?

is there

a bone of evidence, one

clear

picture

of an alien

or UFO?

everyone has a phone

with a camera,

and yet.

still nothing.

no loch ness monster,

no big foot,

no little men from mars.

there's a camera

on every building in the world,

and yet nothing,

and no one.

just you and me

walking down the boulevard

eating chocolate

mint

ice cream.

saying goodbye with a flower

strange

to stand at the coffin

and stare

at a dead

person.

someone you knew,

someone

you used to call and talk

to

nearly every week of your life,

despite

all the arguing

and disagreements

at the end

and long spans of silence

over silly

things like

politics.

you want to apologize,

but it's too late

now.

so you stand there

and wipe away a tear or two,

you drop in a flower.

the need for pockets

at twelve

i couldn't imagine

a life

without dungaree pockets.

where would

my keys go, my change,

my gum

and cherished lucky

rabbit's foot,

and cat's eye

marble.

where would i slide

my black comb

into,

my pen knife.

my book of matches,

and magnifying glass.

i couldn't leave.

deep pockets,

the house without them.

the protest in D.C.

as i watch

the innumerable protests on the street,

angry about

curtailing crime

and homelessness,

it reminds

me of

lemmings

heading toward the cliff,

mindlessly

following the drumbeat

and whistles

of crazy chants,

delirious

with extremists beliefs.

it's not unlike

the scene in Animal House

when the band

follows

the new leader holding the baton

down a dead end

alley,

still playing their instruments

and marching

into a wall.

a yard full of chickens

i wake

up to the sound of chickens

and a rooster

next door to me,

in the small yard where

we share

a chain link fence.

i see them pecking frenetically

at the ground.

such good neighbors.

later, i'll go over to return

a hammer,

and borrow some eggs.

clouds got in the way

the daily news,

like food,

we eat what we like,

we listen and watch

what goes along

with our

own personal views.

turning the channel

from left to the right.

we read

what agrees with us,

we listen

to only our side

of the story, 

closing our ears

and eyes to the other side,

and it's why we never

know the truth.

you're being watched

as i sit at the long

light

waiting for it to change

from red to green

with the window down,

a man leans into my

window

with whiskey breath

and tells me that it's his father's

fault that

he's homeless and on

drugs,

without a job.

it's  why

i sleep out at night

under the bridge, he says.

the shelter has a curfew man,

and they

test you for alcohol.

he shakes some bugs out 

of his beard.

my mother

and father

didn't love

me the way yours did, he says.

he has

the googly eyes,

as i hand him a few bucks

and tell him,

to be careful out there.

you too, he says, the government

is watching you,

they're in your phone, man,

the aliens too,

they're already here, he yells

out, as the light

finally turns green and i pull away.

he's probably right.

a day at the nude beach

we stumble

upon

a nude beach, around

the bend

of rocks and trees.

we didn't see the sign.

it's a secluded

curve

of sand

and surf

where everyone is butt

naked,

but us.

all shapes

and colors and sizes.

all their floppy parts

reddened

in the sun.

people begin to laugh

at us

as we stroll

by

in our shorts and shirts,

our athletic socks

and sandals,

our hats.

they point and mock us.

having a good long laugh.

we ignore them

though,

we're much more kind

than that.

her still life

she used

to paint by the window

in her long

white robe,

where

the light

was good

in the morning

with

the world twenty floors

below.

her easel

set up, her chair,

her pallet of paints

nearby.

a bowl

of fruit on the table,

positioned so,

waiting.

back in the game

i'm looking

for my soul mate this time

around

she tells me,

while doing sit ups

and stomach

crunches

while i hold her ankles.

i'm going to sculpture

my body

until i'm irresistible when

i go out

to the bars,

and post my profile online.

i'm going full blonde

this time.

i'm not settling.

no more cell mates

for me,

a soul mate is the goal.

can you hand

me my seaweed smoothie,

please, she says,

standing up

to look into the wall of mirrors.

so, how do i look.

does my butt look fat in

these purple leotards?

no different than Ghandi

even

Ghandi at some point

let out

a string

of curse words when he

stubbed

his toe

on his bed post

when getting

up to

go meditate before

the sun

came up.

i'm no different, though

i sleep in

longer.

go back to sleep

the loud

bang

in the middle of the night,

just one,

and a flash of light,

makes

me adjust my pillow and pull

the blanket

up tighter

around my

neck.

i don't get up to look

out the window.

there is so much in this world

that i have little power

to do anything

about.

the click bait influencers

the happy

gal

eating two pounds of ground

beef

and six eggs

pops onto the screen,

a pound

of a bacon is on her plate.

she's a nutrition influencer

who tells you

how to lose weight, how to get fit,

how to lower

your cholesterol,

regulate

your insulin

and how to deal with your

A1c level.

she tells you

to run more, eat less,

do intermittent fasting,

get more

sleep,

drink more water and 

electrolyte drinks.

go low on carbs, cut out the sugar

and seed oils,

fried foods.

bread is the devil.

do this do that, try this

and if that doesn't work,

here's a book you should read,

a video of me

you should watch.

each week it's a new diet,

a new

method of being healthy.

my mind swirls from the click bait,

so i surrender

and eat a slice

of cake.

too much of a good thing

too much

of a good thing can be

bad for

you,

food or drink

and the belly expands,

too much

exercise

and the joints refuse

to let you

run

anymore or stand.

too much

sleep and you get lazy,

lying in

bed past ten.

too much love making,

well,

that's when the cliche

ends.

just another night in the district of columbia

car

alarms go off in the middle

of the night,

there's a woman

screaming, dogs are barking,

people are being chased.

cars hijacked.

sirens

are blaring

as the cops speed down

the boulevard,

fire engines

and ambulances go by

with

their party lights on,

gun shots ring out.

it's 2 a.m..

you can see the White House

from your window

when you peek out.

the Capitol,

the Washington Monument.

the tidal basin

is lit up under a moon filled sky.

children

are crying.

people are asleep or dead

on the sidewalks

with needles

in their arms,

crack pipes in their hands. eyes

rolled back

into their heads.

it's just another

night

in your nations capital,

with chaos and blood

rolling down

K street, but according

to the news,

there is only a smidgen

of crime.

Purple Haze

does hearing

Jimi Hendrix singing Purple

Haze

while i shop

at the A and P, make me

buy more

things,

make me stay longer and shop?

does another box

go into my cart by

hearing

his guitar wail

from the speakers up above?

no.

it just makes me

sad

to have grown

so old, so fast.

the dark side of the moon

we've arrived.

we've landed

on the airless

orb of cold shadows,

the world of being talked

to

by robotic voices,

being

on hold,

tapping onto prompt

after prompt,

punching in numbers

written

in small print,

held up to table lamps,

going from one phone

to the other

without ever

getting to where you

need to go. 

then starting over after

minutes of being

on hold with nothing music.

there are no humans

anymore

reached by phone.

we have arrived.

we are now on the dark

side of the moon.

separated by drywall only

she told

me

she was separated from

her husband.

but not

divorced. she said

there

were too many financial reasons

as to why

they never

ended it all and took

it to court.

there was health insurance

shared,

the dog,

the beach house,

the children, mutual

friends.

it was hard to cut all

the strings

that attached them for

so many years.

we are separated, she told me,

but we share

a kitchen

and a tub,

and sometimes he comes

upstairs.

the nascar amazon driver

the Amazon

driver

is in a rush, she swerves

to get around

me,

flashing her lights,

beeping

her horn.

she has quotas to meet,

i guess.

she's in her own car,

but wearing

the vest,

so i know it's official.

she looks

tired

and angry when i look

at her face

in the rear view

mirror.

her white knuckles

gripping 

the wheel.

she's in a rush, hitting

the speed bums

in loud

thumps as she passes me

in a flash,

finally stopping

in front of my house,

where she carries to my

porch

a tiny plastic bag 

full of fountain

pens.

which she takes a picture of,

then hits

send.

undies twisted into knots

climate

change is out of fashion

these days.

they have the wrong side

of 80 20

issues to celebrate

and protest.

it's more

about hating other countries,

or people,

politicians, etc.

hate

and anger gets them out

into the street

now.

forget the blue box

full of

bottle and cans,

paper over plastic.

forget all that nonsense

about the icebergs

melting.

and turtles

not having homes.

we have other issues

to get our

undies all twisted into

knots now.

the night is long

do i miss

the stick shift, the three pedals

on the floor,

the feel

of the leather knob

in my hand

as the car pushes forward

from one gear to the next,

the little roll

back on

the hills, the screech

of tires

on the pavement when

i clutch and gas it

to the hilt.

throwing

the stick forward and back,

to the side

and into sixth gear

as we begin

to fly.

yes, i miss it. but not

as much as i miss you,

telling me to slow

down, easy sweetheart,

the night is long.

the second option

i'm

guilty as charged.

guilty

about so many things,

too many

to count.

your complaints

are real

and reasonable.

put me up against the wall

and end it

once

and for all.

or you could just

move out.

one more first kiss

the first

time

you see the ocean

and feel it's pull,

is not unlike

the first

time you kiss a girl

or make

love,

or hold her hand.

it's a sunrise,

a sunset,

it's cut grass, it's flowers

in bloom.

a full

pink moon.

it's the first

time of nearly everything

that you wish

you could

have again.

cinnamon donuts

i can

still see my mother

standing

in the kitchen dropping

home made

donuts

into the vat of oil,

boiling

on the stove,

then rolling them in

cinnamon sugar

on a board.

how warm they were,

the taste

still lingers

in my mouth, the cinnamon

still on my

lips

and nose. 

the steam of dough.

one more,

one more

we begged,

as she smiled and said no.

save some for when your 

father gets home.

whimsical thinking

nearly

everything i was bored with

in high school,

the books,

the lessons, the lectures,

i am now

interested in.

if i could go back to those

three long

years, i'd take my head

off my

arms

curled on my desk

in half sleep

and listen, undistracted

by girls

and sports,

cars and vacations.

oh my,

such whimsical thinking.

Tuesday night therapy

did you do

anything of value

with your

time

yesterday, my therapist

asks me as i take off my shoes

and lie down

on her

turquoise

mid century modern couch.

yes,

i tell her.

i made beef chili.

oh, she says.

tell me about it.

really? i ask her, hearing

her pen

scratch across her yellow

legal pad.

yes.

what did you put in it.

well,

black beans, ground beef,

80/20,

onions diced,

peppers,

two cans of roasted tomatoes,

thinly sliced

sweet sausage

and my secret ingredient.

oh, she says, and would

you like

to share with me what that

secret ingredient is?

is this something your mother

taught you?

i lift my head and look back

at her.

please, for once leave my mother

out of this, okay?

okay, okay, settle down, she says.

so what is the secret

ingredient?

okay, i tell her, but it goes

in the vault.

i'll be between me and you

no blabbing it to your other

patients

or colleagues.

scout's honor she says.

okay, i tell her, then whisper,

cupping my hands.

Maple Syrup.

washing and waxing the car

there is something

satisfying

about washing and waxing the car.

to have it done,

shining

in the Saturday

sun, beneath

the shade of an oak tree.

the oil changed,

the tires

inflated,

the little Christmas tree

scent

hanging from

the mirror. a smile

comes to your face 

as you stand back

with a chamois rag in your

back pocket,

hands on your hips.

you are young again.

sixteen, perhaps.

happy.

keto pancakes

on a diet

she made the beach house

keto

pancakes.

she got up

early in the morning

and got to work.

a large stack

sat in the middle of

the table when we arose,

but they

were inedible.

thankfully there were

eggs too,

and bacon.

as we cleaned up,

i took the uneaten pancakes

to the porch

and tossed

them high into the air

like frisbees

for the seagulls.

after snatching them,

they flew

for a while, wings flapping

towards

the ocean,

where each pancake,

uneaten, fell.

i'll race you up the stairs

i have a rare

day

of saying yes, not a maybe

or no

comes out

of my mouth,

i haven't been this agreeable

since i was six months

old.

take a walk?

sure.

get some ice cream?

of course.

watch some tv?

why not?

take a nap?

i'll race you up the stairs.

fool around a bit?

yes,

no need to ask.

how you learned to run fast

having lived

close

to this city, the capital

of

the free world,

since a child,

you've known where to go

and not

go

if you valued your life,

your money,

your car,

your bike.

no one had to tell you,

you just

knew

where to go when the sun

slipped

down

and it was night.

muggings and murder,

was the natural order

of things.

hijackings,

drive by shootings,

gangs and thugs.

you've known since childhood.

to go cautiously

when you crossed the South
Capitol street line.

it's been this way

since 1961.

coming out the other side

let us go

to where we've never been before.

it's there

that we will find

each other

again.

let's fly, let's take the train,

the bus,

let's find a tunnel

and come out the other side.

we'll put on our best

clothes.

i'll give you the window seat.

i'll hold your

hand. we'll say nothing

until we arrive.

let's go.

snippets of a poem

do i mind

my foot in ankle deep water

as i step

into the unseen hole

as i cross the road,

the cold

of caught rain soaking

me to the bone.

i don't.

i don't care, i don't care at all,

in fact i'll find

the time

later

when i get home,

to put it in a poem.

with no land in sight

is it the black wet

street,

the glow of gas lamps along

the way,

painting

yellow on the panes.

the moonless

night,

the shuttered homes,

darkened

until morning

with lovers

fast asleep.

is it my empty hand

swinging

at my side

as i take the long way

home?

my thirst not quenched

despite

the drink.

is this the ship i'm on,

sailing perpetually,

with no land

in sight?

so tell me dear, what is it?

before you go,

before

we end this evening,

let's talk a little more,

before we put our clothes back on,

before

you brush your hair

and take

your keys

and head down the darkened

stairs,

to the locked door.

let's not leave so much

unsaid,

so much left on the table

as we so often do

on nights like this.

let's begin before we end.

for once, be true.

so tell me dear. what is it?

making me go forward

i hear

a knock at the door,

there's a beep of a horn,

a tap

at the window,

someone is behind me,

with their hand

on my shoulder,

someone is waking me

up, saying hello,

pushing me along,

making

me go forward.

this is why i ghosted her

over the Home Depot

loud speaker

i hear my name being called out.

please come

to the customer service

desk at the front

of the store. urgent.

i push my cart down the aisle,

full of paint cans and lumber,

shaking my head.

what's this about?

when i get there, there's a short

woman in a wig,

with her hands

on her hips.

the spitting image

of Rosie O'Donnell.

so there you are, she says.

what happened?

you said you were going to call me.

but no,

i gave you my number

three years ago,

and you never did.

i waited night after night

by the phone.

crying with my cats.

you ghosted me on Facebook

and on BottomoftheBarrel Match.com

you disappeared just like that.

ummm,

sorry but who are you and how

exactly did you find me?

i come in here everyday

and have them page you, and finally

here you are.

so, buddy boy, what's the deal?

you don't like me, or what?

i think

you owe me dinner and drinks.

more more more

i can't help it.

the second my fingers touch the keyboard

i'm on Amazon

shopping

for more things i don't need,

but want

when i see them.

more books, more gadgets

for the kitchen,

more pants

and shirts.

more funny magnets

for the icebox, more lights

for the backyard.

another flashlight

and pepper spray cannister

before my trip

to New York.

chasing money

the check

never arrives, so i call the man up

and inform

him

of the lack

of payment from his firm

for services rendered.

hmm.

he says.

i'll have Evelyn look into this,

but she doesn't

come in on Mondays,

so

it'll have to wait until tomorrow.

i'll let her know

about this situation.

she handles all the invoices.

did you

provide one?

of course, yes. i handed it to you.

hmmm, he says.

that's strange, very strange.

we'll, i'm in town today,

i tell him,

so maybe i can

stop by

and pick it up.

hmmm.

no, no,

that won't be necessary.

today's not good, but

no worries,

i'll see that you get your

money.

but it's been over a month now.

i have

bills to pay,

babies to feed, my rent is due.

who is this

by the way? he asks.

and how did you get this number?

the vacation sunrise

get up,

get up, she yells at me,

standing at

the window,

jumping up and down

in her slippers

and chemise

nightie.

you have to see this, come on,

wake up.

i crawl out

of bed

and stagger to the window

in my striped

boxer shorts.

look at this sunset,

have you ever seen such

a beautiful

sunset in your life.

look at the colors.

pink, blue, yellow...

it's amazing, isn't it.

yup.

nice.

reminds me of yesterdays.

i'm going back to bed.

the thin blue line

i can't imagine

being

a policeman

in these times.

what they

must go through

everyday

with so many mentally

deranged

people out and about

on the streets.

their lives

in constant danger

from

the crazies.

whatever the pay is,

it's not enough

to stand on that thin

blue line.

the night was young

we use

to

do a lot of things we don't do

anymore,

i tell her.

don't you agree?

yes,

she says,

i do.

but that's no excuse

as to why

you don't open

the car

door for me like you

use to

before

we were married and

dating.

i guess i was more motivated

back then,

the night was young,

and so were we,

but things have

changed.

jumping into a field of cows

i don't trust

this

parachute packed onto

my back,

tightened with straps.

my sweating hand

grips

the silver ring.

i ask for two more chutes.

the pilot

laughs.

we're almost there,

he says,

pointing

to a field

of cows, in Orange County,

get ready 

to jump, he says

over the loud wind

and engine

of his small wobbling plane.

I'm sweating,

my heart is thumping.

i'm scared.

i haven't felt this

way since

walking down the aisle,

full of maybes.

unlike me

the dog

learns to hit the bell

hanging

on the knob

when

it wants to go out into

the yard.

he's well

trained.

well behaved,

hardly

barks at all and sleeps

straight

through

the night. 

unlike me, he's no bother,

no bother

at all.

studying my lines

i find her

compact under the bed

and open

it to look at myself in her mirror.

i study the lines

in my face,

and try to remember

what put them there.

the laugh

lines,

the frown,

the furrowed brow.

damaged

by sun

and love, death and pain.

she was part of it too.

so easily

it is to toss it across the room,

straight into

the mouth

of the waiting can.

when it flew out the window

all

day i chase

the piece

of paper that has flown

out the window

of the car.

i pull over

and park

and begin to run after it.

but the wind

has it

in its soft hand, toying

with it,

playing with me,

like a dog

with a bone.

it won't let go.

it's not even an important

piece of paper,

there is nothing on it

that will

change my life if it's lost,

and yet,

i want it back.

i don't like it when things

get away from

me

like that.

will they carve his bust next to Lincoln?

has there ever

been a president, 

ever in the history

of this

country

that one half of the people

didn't love

and adore,

who could do no wrong,

in peace

or war,

while the other half

wanted

him gone, pushing up daisies.

even Lincoln

had his detractors,

(see John Wilkes Booth)

Kennedy

too. but

none come to mind

that received unconditional love,

maybe FDR,

or Washington.

but i think the idea of carving

another bust

on Mt. Rushmore

is probably through.

although there is still some room.

the genuine leather bible with oil painting reproductions

i find

the old white Catholic

Bible in

a box,

the one my

mother bought from a traveling

bible

salesman

back in fifty-nine,

back when

men wore hats and suits,

brown

shoes

and ties.

it was colorful

and scary,

Christ on the cross, angels.

Da Vinci

and Rembrandt.

Michelangelo

and Raphael.

it was seven easy payments

of nine-ninety five.

which

angered my father to no end.

not believing

in either heaven

or hell, or the fact that

he would

one day die.

taking care of squeaks

i walk

around the house, oiling

the annoying squeaks.

so many doors

need a squirt or two.

the cupboard,

the windows, the shades,

the pull down stairs

to the attic,

the metal cellar door.

and then,

open wide,

a small dab in the corners

of your mouth,

a few for you.

i can find the door

thin,

like the fabric

of a sheer curtain,

white

and hanging to the floor,

i pull back

the mirage

of you

and see what you've never

let me see

before.

but it's all clear now,

so i'll be passing through,

no need to get up.

i can find the door.

rating gas station bathrooms

i get a new

job

reviewing gas station rest rooms.

they give

me a hazmat

suit,

long rubber boots

and gloves,

and an oxygen mask

to breathe with.

there's always a key attached

to a long

paddle

or wrench

that you use to

unlock the doors

if there is a door still on

rusted hinges.

i score them

on a scale of one to ten,

most

are zero.

although the graffiti

i find

fascinating,

the crude sketches of body

parts, hillbilly

hieroglyphics,

with names and phone numbers

beneath

them.

sometimes there are coins

stuck to the tiles

or seats of the toilet,

if there is one.

the sinks are generally

yellow

or brown,

with a weak drip of water.

no paper towels.

nothing flushes anymore,

and the mirror

is a dull sheet

of aluminum, the glass gone.

but there's a mottled window,

cracked open,

where a sparrow

has made

a twig and grass home,

so i give this one, one star.

some days are like this

as i swing

out here in the yard,

on the

hammock strung from tree

to tree,

the cat

and dog want to join

me.

they jump up

and away

we go,

back and forth

swaying

gently

under the swift clouds

and blue

sky.

some days are like this.

perfect,

without complaint.

mid morning lunch

this

plastic piece of cheese,

in the fridge,

petrifying

since the last marriage,

back behind

the jar of French's

mustard,

with

hard rigid

edges,

what is it?

muenster, Swiss,

mozzarella,

or plain old American

formed

in a factory

by metal

hands and knives,

never to have known a drop

of milk

from a cow's teat,

cut

square

so that you can stack

it high,

once peeled,

on a slice of Wonder

bread and bologna.

i can't seem to open

the mustard

jar,

hand me the pliers.

perusing the galaxies

knowing my fascination

with exploring

outer space,

she gave

me a telescope for Christmas

so that i could

gaze

at the stars,

the moon in all it's shapes

and sizes,

colors.

i could see far off into

the galaxy

at the twinkle of a billion

stars.

and then i noticed

in a window, in the high-rise

across the street,

a tall brunette

doing exercises in her

living room.

i was

amazed at how she could

touch her toes

the way she did.

which was much more

interesting than any

asteroid flying overhead.

pretty much how it is

there

has to be more to life

than this

the young man

says

as he slaves away on his

first job,

his second

and third

job.

is this all there is?

work,

eat, sleep,

occasional play.

repeat and rinse until

i've worn

my fingers to the bone,

and my hair

has thinned

and gone grey.

pretty much,

the old man tells him.

with a thin smile across

his tired face.

the condo fees

every year,

without fail, the homeowners

condo

fee increases

by another

5 per cent.

at some point it will be higher

than what

most people pay

for their

monthly mortgage.

then i read

in the local news that the accountant

who collects

and counts and audits the books

for our community,

the president of the board,

is in the slammer.

he's been dipping into the pot

for decades.

has a house on the beach

drives

a Mercedes

and all his kids go to private schools.

there's a thick

gold chain around

his neck as they cuff him and take

him to the pokey.

he'll be out on bail

next week though, just

in time for the monthly

condo board meeting.

a horror movie

it was a horror movie.

the man

and wife, high school

sweethearts, 

marrying young,

the honeymoon in Paris,

the kids and dog.

the house

with the picket fence.

a life of

working in an office

nine to five,

taking the train

downtown.

the retirement watch.

a life of picnics

and swimming pools,

country clubs

and horses.

birthday parties with balloons.

sitting on the porch

as the sun went down.

it was a life where nothing

ever went wrong

until she found

out what really was going on.

Midge and Harry

she drank,

so he drank, he ate whatever

was in front

of him,

so she did the same,

whatever he

did,

she did and vice versa.

she loved to crack crabs

open

down at the bay,

so did he.

they both liked to fish

off the pier

and take the boat out.

he'd start

a story and she'd finish it.

they began

to look alike, talk alike,

take on the same

mannerisms

and shape.

their faces held the same

sunburn, the same

wrinkles

and laugh lines.

they were mirror images

of each other.

by the thirtieth year

of marriage.

it was hard

to tell who was who, but

it was a wonderful

life all the same.

reminiscing about those school days

i bump

into an old high school friend

that i haven't

seen

in over fifty years.

he asks

me if i'm still drinking

Southern Comfort,

which i used

to sip on

under the grandstand

at football games,

stuffing a pint bottle

in the deep pocket

of my Navy pea coat.

i tell him no.

but how about you,

are you still dating Joann,

the girl who

used to sit behind me

in driver's ed,

her braces full of rubber

bands?

grateful for the little hands that made it

grateful

for the button, all of them

that holds

this shirt together,

i give

thanks

to the little hands

that made

the collar, the sleeve

and the rest of it

in woven

cotton, sewed together

in some far away

Eastern land.

i'll hang

it in the closet with the others,

and maybe

one day

i'll choose to wear

it once more,

if the mood strikes

me for green

again.

the bleeding hearts of print

i cancel

the Times, the Post,

the New Yorker, The Atlantic.

disappointed

in their left wing

propaganda.

they are the bleeding hearts

of print.

i get my news

from AARP

now

and Consumer Reports.

Bon Appetit,

that's all

i need.

every breath you take

i keep

waiting for you to say something

that i can

believe,

just a word or two

that isn't a lie,

isn't a non-truth,

isn't meant to deceive,

but nothing

comes out like that.

just more of the same.

each breath

you take, each word i hear,

makes me grieve.

the morning swim

i dive into the cold

blue

water

of the outdoor pool,

between the striped ropes,

twisted

in red

and blue,

and do my laps.

the sun barely up over

the trees.

i imagine i'd be off

the coast

of France by now, if

i counted the miles

over the years,

and heading back

to where my towel awaits,

but i'm in no

hurry as i kick and throw

my arms

forward,

stroke after stroke,

touching the far end

wall,

turning

then kicking off.

i have many more laps

to go.

today, tomorrow, for as

long

good health

allows me.

we're adults now, sadly so

we'll get dressed

and go

despite not wanting to go.

we'll stare

at the invite

and sigh.

tonight's the night.

it's what we do as adults.

we'll do the proper thing

and behave.

be nice,

polite.

we'll bring a gift and will

stay as long

as the host likes.

we're adults now,

sadly so.

at this age, it's only

right.

the blue eyed cat

the cat,

blue eyed, 

and grey, a silky 

goddess on the sill

bathing in

the sun,

thinking nothing

about anything,

cares

little about

you

and your

ways.

she's alone and likes

it that way.

unlike the dog,

who's in your lap

and licking

your plate.

one or two scoops?

i see old Sleepy Joe,

the ex pres,

at Baskin

and Robbins, not as a customer,

but now he's

working full

time behind the counter.

he's unburdened by

what has been.

he has on his brown

beanie and

a pink smock

covered in melted ice cream,

drippings of chocolate

sauce.

in one hand

he's holding a scooper,

while in the other hand

he's holding

a sugar cone with three

free

scoops of

butter brickle on top.

no joke. not kidding man.

the safest place in the house

the cupboards

above

the refrigerator

are unreachable without

a chair,

or ladder.

it's the safest place

in the entire house,

so that's

where i plan to keep my jewelry,

my Rolex watch,

my gold chains and other

assorted bling,

i'll tuck 

my checks and

stock reports

deep into the cave

of the box,

my will and tax returns too,

my Morgan Stanely

retirement report,

and a stack of cash.

no one would ever look

there.

maybe it's time

i opened those doors up.

you'll never find another love like mine

she used to tell me,

you'll see,

just wait,

you'll find out how much

you're going to miss

me when i'm gone.

i can't remember her name

but she kept telling me,

that she could jump off a bridge

tomorrow and ruin my

life with sadness and sorrow.

you'll never find another

love like mine, she'd say,

standing in the doorway

with a rolling pin

as i watched tv, feet on

the coffee table.

it'll be like that Lou Rawls

song, she said,

you're gonna miss when

i'm gone.

just wait, mister. 

either you straighten up

and fly right or

you'll see.

we just don't get along

some wars

go on forever, they were going

on before

you were

born, and will

continue on long after you're

gone.

it's the nature

of mankind,

since Adam and 
Eve,

some people just

can't get along,

which brings up the topic

of my

neighbors

and their delinquent children,

their dog,

and the rusted

washing machine

in their driveway full

of old clothes.

ghosts of stores past

banded together

by a thick

rubber band i find

a handful

of old check registers

in the creaky file cabinet

in the basement.

carefully, like finding

the dead sea scrolls,

i turn the yellow pages.

it was before a house,

before money

was plentiful, before

marriages

and children, before 

nearly everything i have.

there's an entry for nine

dollars and

ninety-five cents at

the A and P,

a check for three bags of groceries,

another for books at

Borders,

a wrench from Hechinger's.

gallons of paint,

and assorted brushes, 

sandpaper.

there's record of a check

for my mother, for mother's day.

ten dollars.

a check for Britches of Georgetown

for pants

and shirts,

another for Lord and 
Taylors,

one made out to Sears for

snow tires,

a black and white tv

from Circuit City,

dress shoes from Kinney's.

and a large check for twenty-seven

dollars

to Tower Records

with Bob Dylan in the memo.

finding the VHS tapes

i find a dozen

or so VHS tapes in a bin

tucked far away

on a shelf

in the basement.

each marked with a year.

85, 86, 91 2000 and beyond.

beach trips are on there,

holidays,

and birthdays,

family when we were all

young.

my son is on there in diapers.

two ex-wives.

but i think the mice have been here.

some moisture,

some mildew,

cobwebs and assorted smells

are stuck

to the bin.

bravely i pull

it off the shelf

and take out the tapes.

God knows what's on them.

but i want to bring them

back to life

into this somewhat new century

we find ourselves in.

do i risk

everything by sending them

off to be transferred

to another visual form?

DVD, digital perhaps to be

watched on my

smart tv. my phone?

is Gloria on there, Amber,

and Joan?

Trixie and Chrissy.

those were some wild nights

being single again.

will my dog

be there, chewing nervously

on his bone.

there is a God, after all

i take

the barrel of change to the bank

and pour

it slowly

into the counting machine.

it painfully

grinds away

and counts my money for me.

noisily drawing

eyes

from all the tellers

and customers in line.

i give them a smile

and a happy wave.

no longer

do i have to individually

fill the red

and green,

the brown sleeves with

the coins i've saved.

there is a 
God, after all.

some friend you are

he was angry at me

because

i didn't know that his dog died,

and that he

got a new job

and a new wife, and was

now the owner of a Dunkin

donuts franchise.

he had moved into a new

house, bought a new

car, got a new dog.

what? he says to me on the phone.

are you kidding me?

i just posted ten pictures of my

vacation in Italy.

haven't you been following

me on Instagram?

i post everything on there.

my whole life is on there.

the least you could do is

google me sometime.

some friend you are.

what about me?

okay, okay

i tell the large black fly

hitting his

head into

the screen trying to get

back outside.

flapping his

iridescent wings.

give me one more

minute

and i'll open the window.

have a little patience

please,

the world doesn't exactly

revolve around you.

i have a life too,

you know, despite what

it seems.

New Moscow

New York city,

i mean

New Moscow

is about to change.

free stuff,

but long lines.

frozen rents, and surgeries

on the tax

payer dime

for the mentally deranged

wanting to

change

from Jim to Jane.

come one come all

to our

sanctuary city with

government run stores.

think Aldi's with less food

on the shelves.

everyone

will get theirs.

a chicken in every pot.

give me your tired, your dumb,

your sick

and weak,

your criminals.

no police to speak of anymore

keeping us

in place

and the rich will pay

for it all,

before they leave for Florida.

it will be 1984

once more.

the enormous playground

the hours

we would spend with dirt

and sticks,

a fallen tree,

the stream overflowing

with a hard

rain.

the frogs and turtles,

the storm

drain.

tomato cans lined up

for target 

practice

with our BB gun.

a snake under a rock,

the discarded

corpses of washing

machines,

refrigerators with the doors

torn off.

broken mason

jars,

the jelled bottoms gone

to rot.

the playground

was endless in those woods.

the early role model

i think back

and try to think if i had a rational

wise adult

in my life

when growing up.

a mother or father,

an uncle,

an aunt, a teacher in school.

someone polite

and smart, conversational.

classy

and curious about the world

at large.

parents were too busy

back then.

so it's not their fault, having

kids like litters

of kittens.

working their fingers to the bone.

the only person i admired

and looked

up to

was Rodney Dangerfield

on the Tonight Show.

there was no need to be afraid

we prepared

for nuclear war by hiding under

our wooden

desks

in the third grade.

what we didn't know was

that

they were fireproof

and would

protect us from radioactive

waves.

the desk had a secret drawer

full of food

and water,

things we would need to 

survive for thirty days.

there was a plastic hazmat

suit tucked

inside

the little cubby hole where

we kept our 

pens and erasers.

there was nothing at all to

worry about

when the sirens blared

and the big one fell on our

elementary school.

there was no need to be afraid.

our messy house

this fascination

with

going to the moon, or mars,

or elsewhere

is 

baffling.

colonizing

the milky way, really?

do we really want to bring

what we have

here,

there?

do we really want to infect

the stars

with our

troubling ways?

maybe we should fix our own house

before

we make a mess of theirs.

suspicious eyes

there's

a slippery greenish

blue

chameleon

crawling up the metal

strip

on the door.

he's fast as he scurries

along to where

chameleons go when

they don't

want to be seen anymore.

but he takes

a split

second to stop

and look at me

suspiciously,

and me at him.

it's no different than being

in the city,

i do believe.

the vibrating bed

we were tired from the long

drive,

still days ahead

of us

before reaching home

when

we spotted a roadside motel

near the railroad

tracks.

it was raining, past midnight.

so we got a room.

thin curtains, thin mattress,

the smell of smoke

and onions

in the air.

two lamps on two

identical dressers. a picture

of a Spanish galleon

on the wall.

free wi-fi and color tv

free, the sign read, but we

didn't turn it on.

however we did put quarters

into the machine that made

the bed vibrate,

so all wasn't lost.

the welfare state

these crazy

birds

on the fence, 

all sizes and colors,

waiting for me

to fill

the bird feeder.

the squirrels

too,

rubbing their paws together

waiting

for me to pour

the seed

into the green metal

house

hanging in the yard.

why work

for worms

and berries

and whatever else they eat,

why forage the woods,

burrow

and dig, fly all over town,

when here,

the food is free.

just another day

there's a communal

sigh

and shrug

as the next mass shooting comes

on the news.

you barely watch

as you shake

your head.

how many

this time?

another one, so soon?

man, woman,

black, white, brown?

what does it matter,

mental illness

is in every city, state

and town.

there is no cure.

just more innocent

people

going underground.

the serious morning talk

we have

a serious talk.

it's morning before work.

she's wrapped

in a white robe,

hair wet

from the shower.

i'm ready to head out the door.

she says

i won't be here

when you get home tonight.

i tell her, okay.

that's fine with me.

leave the key

under the mat. it's been

nice knowing you.

she says, what?

what do you mean, i just

have to take some

clothes to

the laundry mat

and pick up dinner.

oh, okay.

see you when you get home

then.

i don't want to go home

i take the broom

out

and begin to sweep up the broken

glass.

the bottle slipped

so easily

off the tray

as i carried it to the table.

two long stem

glasses fell too.

the room

smells like

wine, as the rug soaks it up.

it reminds me

of the bars

i used to hang out at,

when younger, when my sowing 

my oats.

i collect the broken

glass and get out the wet vacuum,

all i need is

some cigarette smoke in the air,

and you

in your little black dress,

to set the scene,

and Southside Johnny

singing,

that he doesn't want to go home.

another quarter for another ten minutes

with a pocket full

of change

i'd go up to the Rexall store

and sit inside

the phone booth,

closing

the bi-fold doors,

then call her,

Emily,

my girl, on summer vacation

with her family,

up north.

i prayed her father wouldn't

answer the phone.

he didn't like me.

he didn't trust me.

he knew my intentions

were wrong.

but not all of them.

i truly loved her at the time.

and all this change

splayed

out across the counter

of the booth,

an hours worth of long

distance calls should

prove that.

the back of the metro section

when

you read about the death of someone

in the paper, a celebrity,

or singer,

an actor of some sort,

or maybe

a fallen or rising star, 

or maybe a local bumpkin

that you sort of know,

all you pretty much

want to know is why,

how exactly did he or she die.

how old.

were they married,

children,

rich or poor,

what did they leave behind.

smart and funny,

was he liked,

or despised.

you pretty much want the full

story

on this individual.

you read the obit, over

and over and listen

to the news,

but no.

you have to dig

for that sort of information.

did she really choke on a ham

sandwich,

did he die

by pills or by the rope,

was there foul play involved,

an ex-lover perhaps,

a disgruntled employee, a sibling,

or stranger.

was there a note?

you have to ask around,

call up

your busy body friends,

the know it alls that you know,

you have

to forage through the brush

of the internet,

the high weeds,

to find what you're looking for.

but in the end you really don't care,

but it would

be nice to know,

before you move on to the weather

and then sports.

a work of art

it's a work

of art

this peanut butter sandwich,

the strawberry

jam

lathered

over the slice of white bread.

the brown

sweet crunch of nuts

crushed,

now smooth.

i place one slice on top

of the other,

gently. pressing so.

then cut down the middle.

half for me,

half for you.

is the milk cold?

the short end of the stick

the first baby

was adored,

so was the second and the third,

they enjoyed

all the fresh love

and care,

but by

the fourth

my mother

had had enough, the fifth

and sixth,

then seventh 

got lost in the mix,

they got

the short end of the stick.

the discount burial

there's

no stone, no marker,

no

bench to come sit

and remember

her by. there's

no indication as to where

she's buried.

it's just a rolling field

of grass.

even the cemetery

is a place

she's never

been to, nor any of her

children or

friends.

but someone found a coupon

and got

a deal

on the site.

i can her my mother

laughing

at it all, shaking her head

with delight.

the street artist's sketch

we stop

to let the street artist

sketch

us, together,

sitting down.

she's fast,

the rendering of us

comes quickly

to her

on the pad.

her hands

stained with colored

chalk,

there you go she says,

smiling,

but it's not us, it's

not close.

she's got it all wrong.

we look

happy,

not sad.

green sneakers

all summer

we pushed our mower

up the street

cutting lawns.

our sneakers turned green

from the cut

wet grass,

our skin

bronze, our hair blonde.

by the end of summer

we each had

nearly

a hundred dollars.

rich beyond belief.

it occurred to me, 

as i put the money away

in my wooden

box that working hard

had results,

but the days would be

long

and the years would

stretch out,

go on and on. it didn't

matter though,

i could do it and so could

John.

there's a dog barking in the distance

i slip into my soft

comfy

grey loafers

with the suede finish.

it's that kind of day already.

i sashay

over to the window

with my

cup of coffee in hand,

and see what the weather

is like.

it's grey too.

which is fine.

if i had a velvet robe

i'd put that on,

then fill up my pipe

and smoke it

in the easy chair by the fire.

i hear a dog

barking somewhere

and the sound of a baby

crying.

online dating

do you zoom,

she asks me, skype,

or 

do face time?

do you have WhatsApp?

how about

a Facebook

page?

no,

no and no.

but i can meet you tomorrow

at 8,

in person

if you'd like,

i tell her.

no, she says. that won't

work.

i prefer

not to meet in person.

i'd have

to get dressed

and do my hair,

take a shower, brush my

teeth.

plus there's parking

to deal with,

traffic.

not to mention that it might

rain.

who is this by the way,

Jimmy,

from Sperryville?

the crossword puzzle, four across

baffled

by four across, a word

that starts

with

L

and ends with E.

a

feeling of great

emotion,

the clue reads.

i scratch my head,

tap

my fingers,

my feet.

i have no idea what

the word

could be.

i'll set this puzzle

aside

for now.

maybe it will come to

me

after a long

nights sleep.