finding the right words

just as

you need the right wrench,

the right

tool

to get a job done,

to turn

a screw, to hammer

a nail,

to cut wood, so it is with

words.

only the right ones

will do

when getting your point

across.

the three hundred page Ambien pill

i try,

i give it the old college

try

with this book,

slowly

digging in,

a best seller world wide,

but

it's no use, i can't read

another line,

it's a three hundred page 

Ambien

pill.

i can barely keep open

my eyes.

i had high hopes

for it,

with all the blurbs from

the New York Times,

but nah,

i'm done with it.

time to shut it down,

but i'll keep

it bedside.

choking on bones

i'm not

saying that she

was a bad

cook,

i'm not saying that at all,

but i don't think

slices of

toast

should have

bones in them.

the hourglass

each

to his own hour

glass

of sand,

the grains of years,

trickling down

the funnel.

some

will live forever,

some

won't last

a minute once

gone.

the milk of the moon

it's four in the morning,

when

i decide

to take a drive,

unable to sleep.

the highway

is a long empty stretch

of black

tar.

i'm going nowhere, but

i can't stop

it.

i need the speed, the windows

down,

the music up.

the milk of the moon

is in

my eyes.

i'm going nowhere

but i can't

stop it.

one room at a time

maybe

if i get down on my hands

and knees

and scrub

the floors, maybe if i take

the broom

to the stairs

and rooms,

dust the shelves,

wipe away the dirt,

perhaps then i can change

things.

i can clean

the world away, make

it bright

and shiny

once more, like i

once believed

it was.

a long way to get here

we've come

a long way to get here,

to be

standing

at the edge of the ocean,

at this late

month.

it's in our

eyes,

our ears, our mouths.

the wind

of salt

beats against us. winter

can't be far off.

you hear it in the cry

of gulls,

the violence of waves 

against

the rocks.

we put our feet into 

the cold brine

of green water, almost

brown,

and shiver

as we walk.

we've been here before.

dark and busy times

it's not

a fight about right or wrong,

about

politics,

about differences

of views,

it's a a battle against

good

and evil.

light and darkness.

it's a war

that we're in, a war for

your mind

and soul, stand strong

and righteous,

for

Satan

is busy.

many dark nights to come

your

dark beer will not

suffice,

the tall

bottle,

the glass filled

over and over again,

as you rail

at the sky

for reason.

forget

erasing sorrow,

forget

laughter for a long while,

for the losing

of a loved one,

will make this the longest

of many dark

nights.

no surprise that there is evil in the world

it shouldn't

be as surprise by now, 

to know that there

is evil

in the world,

demons

in pursuit

of those they disagree

with,

whether politically

or by

religion, or by the color

of their skin.

each

day

you wake up 

you see more of it.

in word,

in deed,

whether by

bullets or knives,

the dead

litter the landscape

where

a flag at half mast

limply flies.

swimming in holy water

i've had a lot of bad

thoughts

lately

about a lot of people

and what's

going on in

the news, so

i fill

up my little pool

in the back

yard

with holy water.

i've connected about seventeen

hoses

up the sidewalk

and through 

the parking lot of the church

then to

the nozzle

in the wall

where Father Pete

controls

the flow.

it takes about an hour

to fill,

i text him when it's done,

but he's

not amused.

one yellow shoe

i find

your one yellow shoe

under the bed,

the dog has had his way

with it.

it was your

Sunday, go to church

heel,

though we seldom

did.

i still remember

you leaving

on Monday morning,

barefoot in the parking

lot,

carrying the other heel

under your arm.

the bright yellow

italian leather shiny

in the morning sun,

then tossing

it into the woods

before you got into your

car.

just give it time, you'll see

i can't

believe in the theory

of evolution,

the whole

one cell into a billion,

a fish

into a monkey

and then

suddenly

you're a teller working

the night

shift

at the toll booth

on the New Jersey Turnpike.

pile up

some glass, some wires,

some bricks,

etc.

and in billion years

you'll have a building

with working

elevators

and a cafertia on the roof?

quiet as an apple peel

quiet

as a an apple peel

left

on the counter overnight,

going

brown,

i don't hear you

whispering on

your phone

before

sneaking out the back door,

going into town.

nor will i hear you

when you return,

your hair

a mess,

a rip

into your dancing down,

tip toeing

up the stairs,

finally home.

i'll pretend not to hear,

it's why

we get along so well now.

i can't hear you

the air is

littered with noise,

the commerce

of the world is constant.

the whir

of everything,

the grind

of metal, the swing of

pistons,

machines that cut

and blow

and blend.

a stir of

wheels

turning and turning.

steel

against steel.

horns over horns,

the engines overhead,

the jackhammers

against stone.

the whistle

of trains. the baby 

crying.

i can hardly hear a word

you said.

the note you leave behind

as i sit

at this old desk,

scarred

and faded where my elbows

and hands

have been

over time,

i write a note, a reminder

of what

needs

to be done.

details

following my demise.

i put the pen

down

and fold the note over.

the woods

outside

the window have turned

golden

and red,

a soft yellow.

once more,

the leaves are dying

in this autumn light,

but i don't mind.

making French Toast again

the tap

on the shoulder startles

me as

i stand in line

with a dozen

eggs

and milk,

bacon and bread,

a bottle of maple syrup,

tomorrow's breakfast,

or tonights dinner

i haven't decided yet.

don't i know

you?

the woman says.

you look so familiar.

i turn around

to look at her.

i nod, yes, i think we've

met.

in fact i believe

we were married once

back in the 80's.

your mother lived with us

in the basement.

does she still have that big

thing on her neck?

she nods yes.

we had three kids,

i tell her and

we used to live in that blue

house up

on the hill.

right, she says, right.

i thought it was you.

making French Toast again?

she asks,

looking at my

groceries.

maybe, i tell her, maybe.

we'll nice seeing you again,

the line

is moving, go on, go on,

move ahead.

throw me into the fire

it's not

cold, it's not winter or even

fall

yet,

and yet i shiver,

i'm freezing.

my hands

are blue, my feet.

i tremble

even in this warm

wind.

there's not enough sunlight

to warm me,

not enough

clothes to put on

to shake this chill

from my bones.

the blood in my veins

runs slow,

my heart

has turned

to ice. do me a favor,

please

throw me into the fire,

before

you go.

the tightened leash

obedient

and compliant,

you

are still your mother's

child,

obeying

the command

of the women

in your life,

read what i say to read,

eat what's

on your plate,

be neat.

sit

when i say sit,

heel,

jump,

roll over, bring gifts.

if you loved

me

you'll do this, and this

and this.

what choice do you have?

and so you follow,

because of the tightened

leash.

la dee da

so you like

crime?

i ask my liberal left leaning,

die hard

Kamala fan,

as she dyes her

hair blue

before another protest

downtown.

you don't think the police

need help?

i cringe as she slips her

nose ring

into her nose

and jams a stick pin into her lip.

you don't

mind all the murders

and rapes,

the robberies

and car jackings?

you think the city is great?

yes, she says.

la dee da, all fake news.

i watch her as she

stuffs a few

cannisters of pepper

spray and mace

into her purse.

would you be a dear,

she says,

and help me snap

on my bullet proof vest?

none of anything has ever been my fault

i flip flop

on

thinking that i'm to blame

for everything,

everything

and anything that's ever

gone wrong,

but by the next

morning, after

a good nights sleep

and a strong cup of coffee

in the morning,

i come to the conclusion

that none

of it is my

fault, but the fault

of everyone

around me.

don't make me name names.

the divorce lawyer

the first

thing the lawyer asked me

was

how much do i make,

how much do

i have in the bank,

what's your projected

income

for the next year, and the year

after that.

then she asked

me what the issue was,

why do you want

to hire me,

while

inserting a needle into

my vein.

a place to lie down

it's

not an unpleasant place,

this

land, this wooded

cemetery,

bordered by an iron

fence

that keeps no out

and everyone in.

it's a grassy field

of markers with

the names of the dead

carved in,

inscribed with

the dates

of leaving the earth,

and the day they

were born.

some markers are

tilted, some fallen down,

some marble

others of common

stone.

and then there's the statues

and squared

homes, mausoleums.

it's easy to tell who

had

money,

who had little,

who had none when it was

time to lie

down.

the Mayflower travel agent

i'm not going to lie

to you.

it was rough sailing coming

over on the Mayflower

that my travel agent booked

for me and my

new bride,

Mary Astor Stoffer.

we were

months and months

at sea.

we were out there for so

long, that even

the women

grew beards. we survived by

eating hardtack

and fish, salted meat,

drinking beer,

taking medicinal sips

from a barrel

booze.

try sleeping on a wooden

deck

for two months,

rocking back and forth,

getting seasick with

no running water or

bathrooms,

it seemed like forever

when someone finally yelled out

land ho.

and then the arrows

started flying in,

but we didn't care, we got

off and started

chopping trees making houses,

and creating stylish

clothes out of the abundance

of deer and squirrels.

when we finally got off that

stinking ship, i immediately

sent my travel

agent a nasty note

about the accommodations

via carrier pigeon,

of course he never wrote back.

disappointing the priest at confession

Father Smith,

astonished at my short

list of sins,

slaps his forehead,

as i kneel in the confessional

booth, with my

hands pressed together

and head bowed.

he asks me,

nosily, pressing his face

against the mesh window,

is that it?

his breath smells a little bit like

Irish Whiskey

and cigarettes.

that's all you have? he says.

is that it?

you haven't been to confession

in forty years.

sorry,

i tell him.

but that's pretty much it.

a few white lies

here and there like when someone

asks me if they look

fat in a pair of yoga pants,

or if they look tired

and old today.

but no, not much to tell.

yes, there's been some anger

and impatience

while stuck in traffic, or

at the DMV.

not to mention

a lifetime of lust,

and fooling around

with fast

women, which i blame

my father's

collection of girly magazines

that he'd

leave in the bathroom,

and gossiping, a lot of gossiping,

which i got

from my mother

who was always on the phone,

but no envy, murder,

thievery, greed,

or taking the Lord's name

in vain.

dang, he says. that's amazing.

so, you have nothing juicy

to tell me?

no dark hidden secrets,

no skeletons

in your closet.

umm. no, don't think so.

come on, come on, you can

tell me, i'm

not going to tell anyone,

i promise.

sorry, but no, 

no dark secrets,

none that i can think of.

although there was this one flight

attendant from Seattle,

that i met online,

who told me she was divorced

but she wasn't.

her husband was an airplane

pilot and threated

to steer his plane

into my house, if she ever

came to visit again.

so i guess that's adultery.

but other than that, nothing.

gee Willackers, he says. okay. okay.

three Hail Marys,

and a few Our Fathers

and leave a twenty on the seat

before you leave,

and you're back in

the game again.

very interesting, he says,

very interesting,

i guess that wraps it up,

so, see you on Sunday 

for mass, right?

umm.

we'll see.

mere fireflies

as the cradle

slides

back and forth filled

with

the smallness of new

life.

you begin

to cry.

you know this is temporary.

this new joy.

your life,

then his

will come

and go. mere

flashes of light,

like fireflies.

lost in the fog

i see

in the clearing

a woman

in a white dress.

she's

almost

invisible against

the fog.

she looks lost,

unsure

of which way

to go.

she looks familiar.

she looks

like someone

i use to know.

when i wake up from

this dream,

things

will different.

but the sun will come

out again,

or so i'm told.

medium size cup of shrimp salad

Violet

who used to be Vincent

is working

behind the deli

at the local

grocery store,

she/he

has long red hair

now

and suddenly a pair

of breasts

that Dolly Parton

would blush over.

a pound

of Honey Baked Ham

and a quarter pound

of Provolone cheese,

i tell Violet,

and a medium sized

cup

of shrimp salad.

he/she tugs on his beard

and says,

no problem in a new

high pitched voice.

big game today?

he asks.

yup.

this could be our year,

he says.

maybe, i tell him. maybe.

oh and throw

in a couple of those dill pickles

too, floating

in that jar.

the majorette jumping on my back

i go in

for a massage.

it's a new girl.

Olga has been

arrested,

cuffed and taken

away to the pokey,

for what i don't know.

but the new girl,

from Ireland,

Elf is good.

she weighs about a hundred

pounds

but she's strong.

she knows how to use

her elbows

and knees,

she knows how to stand

on my back

and jump.

she used to be a majorette

in college.

she knows how to twirl

her silver

baton.

it's a good massage,

i drift off

into a nice

deep sleep.

i've fallen in love again.

i'll ask her

to marry me just as soon as

i wake up.

falling behind faster and faster

things

are overdue,

the dentist

appointment

for the six-month cleaning,

bills

lie on the desk

with interest

building.

i haven't changed the air

filter

in the furnace

for months.

the oil in the car

needs to be changed,

the tires

inflated,

an inspection

needs to take place,

the sticker updated

food has

expired

in the fridge.

cans

on the shelf are ready

to explode.

when was the last time

i called you?

i can't remember,

i'm way behind on everything.

how i spend my time

as i chase

this fly around the house

with a copy

of the Atlantic Monthly,

not with

malice,

but with the intention

of keeping it alive,

by swiping it

towards

the open door,

cracked,

just slightly ajar.

it's not how i want

to spend

my time,

but then again what is?

something very similar

it's a poetic

smile,

a slight turn

of your lips

upwards, the twinkle

of blue

eyes

shaded

from sunlight,

the toss of hair around

your shoulders.

the touch

of your hand

on my knee.

i do think that it may

be love,

or something very

similar,

we'll see.

you expected more

you expect

more, perhaps, when the eyes

close,

and the heart

stops.

maybe angels

gathering.

old friends with their

hands

out.

so it surprises you when

you die,

to hear

the buzzing of a fly

nearby,

lingering

with busy wings

near your mouth.

story time for the little one

before he'd go to sleep

at night

i use

to read to my son

the usual

books, sitting in the rocking

chair beside

his little bed.

Dr. Seuss, Curious George,

The Man in the Yellow

Hat,

Peter Pan,

or Treasure Island,

etc.

but after a few months,

he got

bored, so i had to make

stories up.

he loved the ones where

Santa Claus would go nuts

and rob

The First National

bank,

blowing up the safe,

while his sled 

and reindeer waited on

the roof

with a few elves.

at some point Batman

would be involved,

Wonder Woman,

and Lex Luther.

occasionally a flying saucer

invasion

would take place

threatening the future of

the world.

green men and ray guns.

vampires would rise

from the dead

and start biting people,

turning into bats

and attacking children on

the playground.

once an earthquake

cracked open the walls of the insane

asylum,

and all the crazy people

escaped

wrapped up in straight jackets.

i'd tell him

a horror story

that Hillary had been elected

as President

after rigging the election

and was painting the white house

in rainbow colors.

at this point

he'd get scared and start crying.

saying no, dad, no.

then his mother

would come into the room,

which ended story time

for the night.

the enormous blue sky

i throw

the map into the back seat

of the car,

turn

off the navigation

system,

shut down my phone.

i'm lost.

but i'm not lost.

i'm actually fine out here

in the country

on this long

country road,

alone.

i keep driving past

rows and rows

of corn.

has the sky ever been this blue?

people wave to me

from their porches.

cows moo,

horses neigh.

it's a good feeling to

be nowhere,

lost but not lost,

to be so

far away from home.

the pet snake

i always

felt that there was something

seriously

wrong with anyone

that had

a snake

as a pet, or a lizard,

or rat.

even a vicious pit

bull

from the pound.

how they let the snake

wrap

itself around

their neck.

at some point you just

knew

that you would read about

these people

in the paper,

related to some gruesome

crime

they were involved in.

it was just a matter

of time.

a serious conversation at the Waffle House

you

don't go to a Waffle Shop

for a serious

conversation,

i told her,

as we sat down smearing

butter

and syrup

all over our waffles,

steam rising

from the plate,

strips of greasy bacon lying

beside

the golden crates of

baked flour.

but we need to talk about

this,

she insisted.

we can't go on like this.

i wave the waitress down

to top off our

coffee and to bring more

butter and another

bottle of syrup.

eat, i tell, her, eat.

let's have at least one meal

in peace.

tomorrow we'll both get

lawyers, okay?

by the way,

do you want your bacon?

declining the second date

it wasn't a good first

impression,

i had broccoli in my teeth

and a strand of

toilet paper

stuck to the bottom of my

unlaced shoe.

my white shirt

had a ketchup stain

on the front,

and was misbuttoned

from top to bottom.

my zipper was down, and i

forgot my wallet.

and yet she still liked me

despite everything

that was wrong.

i had to tell her no

to a second date. i mean

who wants to be

with a person like that

with no standards all.

the new tiki bar in the back yard

i need

a new back yard.

i've been saying this for years.

mother nature

has taken

over, it's a jungle out there.

God knows

what's in the brush,

animals,

snakes,

wasp nests.

but i don't have a vision.

i look at the mess

and see nothing

but vines and bramble.

but maybe

with some effort i could

create a tiki lounge

on the patio, install

a small pool

to take a dip in,

put some tiki torches up

and bring

in some dancing girls

from the islands.

a string of party lights

around the fence would be nice.

i could plug in 

a blender and mix up

some exotic cocktails

with the little umbrellas

sticking out.

maybe there's a shovel

in the shed

to get me started. i think there's

a shovel in there.

but i'm exhausted just thinking

about it,

so i stop

looking at the yard and turn

back to the book

i was reading.

maybe next year.

hopping off in Philly

the man

next to me on the train

sticks

out his arm

and rolls up his sleeve.

there's a long

oozing

cut from his elbow

to his hand.

his shirt is red with blood.

do you think this is

infected? he says.

i inch away,

looking out the window

of the packed

car.

yes, i tell him.

you should have that looked

at.

i see the sign

for the Delaware bridge

and wonder if i should

get off in Philadelphia.

not my stop,

but the next stop on

the way.

forcing me to fill up

i stare

at the gas gauge.

it's blinking yellow.

and yet,

i'm an optimistic

person,

i believe in my heart that i can

make it home

without stopping.

i don't pull

over at the next Exxon

station,

instead i gun the engine

and glide

down

the hills, i stick my arms

out the window

and flap them.

my wife looks at me 

and says,

if we run out of gas, i'll

kill you.

pull over,

there's a Shell on the next

exit.

so i do. i give in.

like always.

more paid protesters

i couldn't believe

how much the protesters were

being paid

to march

and scream and yell

and carry signs

from three to five.

they were earning money

for just

a few hours of being

out on the street

acting nutty as a fruitcake.

banging pots and pans,

blowing kazoos,

singing songs they

were handed to by the organizers

in green vests.

then the clock

struck five

and they all went home

with a pocket full of cash,

mission accomplished,

the world was changed.

wait until you see the pepper shaker

i never

knew

how many waters there were

until

i went to an upscale

restaurant

at the age

of eighteen.

i was used to the hose water

out back,

warm

or hot in the long stretch

of green plastic

tubing,

the spigot,

the handle on the sink or

my hand cupping water

when it rained.

and now

i had to make a decision,

sparkling,

still,

flavored or spring.

luke warm or iced?

the waiter was a connoisseur

of water

holding the bottle out

with both hands,

for us to see.

i love you, i tell her

what about

tomatoes?

she asks me. we could grow

tomatoes,

and lettuce,

maybe stalks of corn.

what do you think about that?

maybe move

to the country where we can

have a small

farm

with pigs and cows,

a few

chickens for fresh eggs.

we could

live off the grid. be free.

i lower

the newspaper

to look her in the eyes.

she has beautiful eyes.

they're green

like shards of glass

from broken pop bottles

on the street.

i love you, i tell her.

and go back

to reading.

The Bathroom Renovation

you call up four or five

contractors

for estimates on renovating

your bathroom,

it's what people do when

they're about the spend

thirty thousand dollars

of their children's inheritance

in one fell swoop.

nothing has been touched

since 1968,

before we even landed on the moon.

the tiles green

and pink,

chipped and cracked.

things swirl forever in the clogged

drains of sinks.

the hair and makeup of several wives

still tangled

in the pipes.

it's a variety of men that

come to the door

to measure, some in suits,

some in logo shirts,

some in shorts and flip

flops, fishermen hats.

smokers, and non-bathers,

a few with rings and necklaces

around their thick

tanned necks,

pulling up

in Cadillacs or dented white

vans with out of state tags

and ladders on the roof.

some speak English, some

don't. 

they take pictures and measure,

one has a laptop

that he zooms around.

another uses his fingers to count

the tiles on the wall

and floor

and makes marks on his hand,

giving you a napkin

later with the price of the job.

some have brochures, others

have business cards with the names

and numbers crossed out.

a few have websites

with photos and reviews,

while others have no trace of

their existence, it's as if they

were never born.

they leave behind their measuring

tapes,

pencils and notebooks,

calling later

to stop by once more.

elimination is easy, then it comes

down to two.

the coin flip

takes place as you pray on your

knees that you're

not making a big mistake.

lovers in the woods

even

these tossed cans

catching

sunlight

have a beauty to them,

an empty green

bottle on its side,

the litter

of lovers

passing into the woods

searching for

a hollow

away

from prying eyes.

this paper blowing,

wrappers,

strings that held things

together

give signs of life.

i walk

slowly with the cool

breath

of autumn

upon me.

i won't disturb the woods,

these lovers,

it's their

turn now, not mine.

Peking Duck 75 dollars

for some

reason

the Peking Duck dish is seventy-five

dollars.

one roasted duck

with the legs up,

the head

off

and a handful of spring

onions

scattered about.

i almost ran

over seven ducks this

afternoon

driving to the restaurant.

why

so much for the ducks?

i ask

the manager,

Jill.

ducks are rare, she says.

very rare.

hard to find ducks around here.

i take her

out to the parking

lot and show

her the front bumper of my

car with

one duck still hanging on.

he'll be home soon

they preserved

his bedroom, as if he was coming

back

from the war.

the poster of Farah Fawcett

still taped

above his bed

on the wall.

the bed neatly made,

clean

sheets and pillowcases.

his football

was on the shelf

his ice skates

and a baseball

glove.

his schoolbooks stacked

upon the floor.

socks and shoes

scattered about. jerseys

and hats.

a b. b. gun

in the corner.

a picture of him

at his first holy communion

on the desk

next to his stereo

and records,

while

his television sat on a stool.

Playboy magazines were

still stuffed beneath

the mattress with the articles

yet to be read.

sometimes they'd

unlock the door

and take a look in,

telling each other,

no worries,

he'll be home soon.

all that and a bag of chips

it's junk

food

for the ears and eyes.

the phone is a bag of salty

chips

that we

can't stop eating.

the bag

is deep,

it has no bottom.

only fatigue makes you

finally

stop eating,

chip after chip.

your eyes

blurred,

your mind confused

and never

quite full,

never

satisfied

that you found

the truth, but it's night

and you'll

be passing out

soon.

leaves in all directions

you wonder

where people go

when they've left

your circle

of life,

your small orb

of existence.

where

have they run off to?

is it your fault,

theirs?

no one's?

just the wind picking

us up

like leaves

fallen from autumn trees,

blowing,

blowing us away

from each other.

it was a good truck, painted blue

the truck was painted blue,

although

it came

from the factory

white.

rust and dents had gotten

the best

of it.

so why not blue.

it was the color of her eyes

in the summer.

the girl he married.

they tied tin cans to the back

when it left

the church,

heading to Ocean City

for a honeymoon.

it hauled

his life around,

from shared rooms to

apartments,

to different cities,

small towns.

another dog hanging out

the window.

he put ladders on the roof,

made

his living with

the tools stored inside.

something was always rattling

in the back.

he never fixed

the broken mirror,

or the window

with a long thin crack

and the odometer gave up at some

point stuck on

a hundred thousand

and thirty-two.

it was a good

truck.

it was a good life until

it wasn't.

the welcome mat

the welcome

mat

is old, worn, beaten

down by shoes,

frayed

at the edges,

ravaged

by sun

and storm.

do i really

need it anymore?

oh you men

i see

my neighbor Becky

carrying

a pot of baked beans

up to the pool.

it's the end

of the summer annual

celebration,

last day

of the pool being open.

she asks me

what i made,

i tell her Jello, strawberry

Jello again.

she rolls her eyes 

and laughs,

and says

loudly, oh you men.

the illusion

clean

at last with a bar

of soap

and a hot shower,

i feel

like a new man

as i sit

here on the edge of the bed

wrapped

in my Turkish towel.

i'm ready

to tackle the world

again,

before it

tackles me.

avoid fame at all costs

it's hard

being famous, being chased

by adoring

fans,

hated too,

always in the news,

everything you

say or

do analyzed

to the nth degree.

who are you with,

where are

you going?

what are you wearing?

why do you look so old

now?

is that a new nose,

a new

chin,

is your hair held on

with glue?

when are you ever

going to do something

new?

we're tired of you.

the weather report

partly

sunny with a chance of rain.

but cool

temperatures

will prevail

throughout the week.

finally,

it's over

with the summer heat.

time to open

your windows

when you go to sleep.

snuggle

if you have someone close by

beneath

the sheets.

the diamond ring

it's a store

with chained windows

and a bell

over the door.

it rings

when she enters, and a man

in the back

comes out

to help her.

he's wearing suspenders

and has a pair

of glasses

on the tip of his nose.

she sets something down 

on the counter

made of glass.

it's what she wants to pawn,

broken hearted

and low on cash.

he says,

hold on, let me take a look

at that,

taking out a jeweler's

eye

to get a closer look. he shrugs.

okay, he says,

then opens up a black

safe on the floor.

he counts

out the money. placing

it in her hand.

he can tell she's not 

coming back.

it's a good story no matter how many time you hear it

i set the phone

down

when my mother calls,

and put

it on speaker.

i can hear her sipping on her

tea

and crunching down

on Melba toast.

she tells me a long story about Mitzi,

a woman

she knew from

the old neighborhood

who drove

a blue Mustang,

skinny Mitzi

as she was known.

i've heard this story before,

but it's fine.

i bring up

a basket of clothes

from the basement

and begin to fold them.

once in a while, i'll mutter

something towards

the phone,

like, that's crazy Mom,

unbelievable.

methodically,

i uncling all the socks

and roll them up

into black and white balls.

dead beat dads

the phone

rings

at midnight. it's a collect

call

from the county jail.

it's someone i haven't

talked

to in five years.

there's a Rolex

watch in

the pocket of my tuxedo,

it's hanging in the bedroom

closet

next to my

Sam Snead golf clubs,

the man says.

i need you

to sell it

so that you can get me

out of here.

i need the money to 

post bail.

the condo is locked,

but after you scale the wall of the

gated community,

there's a window

on the second floor

that i leave cracked for when

i smoke.

you just need a ladder

to climb in.

try not to waken Amber

who likes to sleep late in my bed.

please help.

they've taken my belt,

my shoelaces,

i'm down to my underwear,

you have

to get me out of here.

the man

sleeping next to me has a

swastika

tattooed on his forehead

and a bug

infested beard.

and would you mind checking

on my black Jaguar,

it's parked in front

of the courthouse in a handicap

spot.

maybe move it until i get out.

despite the orange grove

even

somewhere feels like nowhere

at times.

no matter

how far

the train has taken

you,

you're not there yet,

maybe never

will you arrive.

despite the orange trees

outside,

it's just another place to lie

down

at night.

youthful writing

in the bin

where the past lies

on the shelf where the cobwebs

have grown,

where crickets

sound off,

where the walls are wet,

where moss

grows,

i find the notebooks

of youth.

the almost incomprehensible

streams

of consciousness

that at time,

i thought were all gold.

but do i throw

them away.

of course not, no.

oatmeal with a spoon

would it better have

your eyes

go blurry,

or your hearing

dulled, or

to lose your long term

memory

or short term?

which would drive

those around you more

crazy, while

feeding you oatmeal

with a spoon?

give me that

one.

so what, we still hate him

in his spare

time

the president finds a cure for cancer,

discovers

an alternative

type of fuel

that will replace oil by

the end of the year,

he's ended six

wars,

and has been given

the Nobel Peace Prize,

he's given all of his money

away

to the poor.

he's secured the border.

he's built orphanages

around the world.

everyone has a job now,

crime is down,

the stock market is booming,

children are learning

once more

in school,

and yet when

you ask the other side

of aisle,

with blue hair and nose rings,

how they feel now,

they say,

so what, we still hate him.

he's just a clown.

other people's children

it's other

children that make you nervous,

make you

anxious

and to break

out in hives,

they drive you crazy,

short drive

that it is, but

not

your own kid,

your own kind,

but the other

ones

in the room.

and worse yet is a birthday

party

at Chuckee Cheese,

with the singing

furry animals,

the grey rats.

a sea of floating balloons,

chaos,

with lights and music,

it's Lord of the Flies

with no one

coming to save you.

time cannot go fast enough

to get your kid

past

that age.

the deal breaker

having never

had a pet,

the cat was an alien being

to her,

the dog

too.

tentatively

she'd stick her hand out

to touch

them,

as if in a petting zoo.

do they bite, she'd ask,

do they

shed,

what do they eat,

where do they sleep at night,

i hope not with

you.

have you given them names?

do you use

terms of endearment

with them?

it's so much work

and caring

that you need to do, how

will there

be time for me, between

those two?

the smartest person in the room

don't

be the smartest person

in the room.

don't be the second or third,

or somewhere

down the line.

maybe be in the middle,

and learn

something

for a change, staying

quiet,

with both ears open,

let others

help you put wisdom

into your mind.

the labor day emoji

i celebrated labor

day

yesterday,

a day

early.

i did nothing.

it's a confusing holiday.

what do we

eat on this day, 

maybe something easy to make

like instant oatmeal

instead of those tedious

labor intensive

hot dogs and burgers,

are flags

involved, fireworks?

do we put

a tree up,

or candles in the window?

do we forgo all the chores

around the house

on this day,

refuse to do

any kind of work,

not touching a hammer

or a rake?

is there a Hallmark card

to celebrate

it?

do we greet each other

with the words,

happy Labor Day?

have a good one, or

text each other with the

appropriate emoji?

which is what?

the canned tomato time bomb

reaching high

and deep into the top

shelf of the cupboard

where i haven't

been in decades,

i find a can

of tomato sauce.

i study

the can with a bulge in the tin

rounded

side,

but the label

is smudged.

i look at the dents

and dings.

i can't tell if it's expired

or not.

when i shake

it there's a loud bubbling

sound

as if it might

explode at any second.

i might have

to change my dinner plans

for tonight.

murderers row

the democratic mayors all line

up

and tell

the news casters, there's no

way

we're going to accept

any help

with our crime

waves.

the orange man

can stuff it.

we're just fine thank you.

don't come

here and help

our citizens not get killed or mugged,

or hijacked.

we've got this.

robberies and homelessness

are a tradition

in our fine city

and if the people don't like

it,

they can move to a safer place.

you keep your law

and order for your own cities.

we don't need

your help.

how dare you, the nerve

of you

trying to save lives,

black, white, whatever.

the cookie in milk

in the end

he was a cookie in milk.

crumbling

at the edges,

ready

to sink into the cold

oblivion

of heaven,

or God forbid hell.

ears and eyes

shot,

legs wobbling,

but his mind was sharp,

still funny,

still laughing,

shaking his head

at the worst jokes

i could conjure up.

what Ingrid left behind

together

we

push and pull,

carry,

lift and struggle

around

the corners, up

three flights

of stairs,

down the hall and finally

into the room

after

the door is removed,

the couch

i bought

for two

hundred dollars from

Ingrid,

who decided to leave

the country

and move.

VHS tapes

the old VHS tapes

are

thirty-five years

old.

ancient,

lost but now found

in a box

in the cellar.

heir looms

no different than

the dead sea scrolls.

we were young then.

the child

just born.

there he is in the tub,

pink and as happy

as a store-bought doll,

on the swing,

in his crib

beneath the mobile

that swirls

and plays a nursery

song.

it's almost imaginary,

a fairytale

of some sorts,

how could we ever have

been so young.

two for the price of one

we're looking

for a bargain, always, something

good,

but cheap,

worthy

but not going to break the bank

when we open up

our wallets

and purses.

we cut coupons,

we wait for the Labor Day

sale,

the going out of business sign

to go up.

last chance,

make us an offer

we can't turn down.

there's a sign in the window

over there,

two for the price one,

buy the left shoe,

and the right one is free.

come on in

and try

both on.

the single thread

it's a single

thread,

one long thin red

piece

of the sweater that you can't

help but to pull

and pull

at it,

wishing you had a pair

of scissors,

by days end,

it's gone,

lying in a pile of cotton

yard

at your feet

unwound.

sometimes it's best to leave

small things

alone,

i guess.

the secret to a happy life

what we

don't keep in mind,

always, or nearly always

is that in a hundred

years

from now,

all of us will be dead,

and all

this worrying and wringing

of hands

about everything

will be worthless consternation

that keeps

us from being happy,

or able to sleep at night.

all the mind games,

the regrets and remorse will

be nothing but

thin air,

less than thin air.

the constant rehashing of relationships

gone south,

the endless concern

about so many

minute things will be dust.

words said, or unsaid,

money, love, sex, death.

everything that makes our eyes

twitch,

our hair thin,

and the ulcers grow

will be gone.

all of who we are,

will mean

zippo

to the next crowd that takes

our place.

so as my good friend

Vinnie in the Bronx,

with a cigarette behind his ear,

used to say to me as we stood

out on the street corner

on a cold windy day,

just forget about it. 

forget about it.

tell me your problems, the doctor is in

because

of the last wife, the very last

wife,

let me make that

clear,

because of her i've read too many

psychology books

on a variety

of dysfunctions.

watched too many videos

on YouTube.

i've dog-eared a dozen

pages or more in

the latest version of

the DSM.

i could write a thesis

on narcissism, covert

or grandiose,

anorexia,

suicidal idealization,

favorite persons,

borderlines, or give a speech

to a clinic

in Helsinki, verbatim.

don't get me started

on gaslighting,

love bombing,

or cognitive dissonance.

go ahead tell me about

your problematic

relationships.

go on,

the doctor is in.

the blanket hog

i've never

told you this before, but

your

night light is keeping

me up at night.

so is the way

you snore,

and the way you hog all

the blankets

and pillows,

all of those dogs on

the floor.

the crumbs

in the bed

from your constant snacking

on cookies

and chips,

the way you twitch and turn

as the night goes

on.

and what's with all those

open dresser

drawers?

the lucky rabbit's foot

i can't find

my

rabbit's foot, i've had it

since i was

ten

and have

rubbed the hell out

of it

for decades hoping for a little

bit of

good luck.

this isn't good.

how can i leave the house

without

my lucky rabbit's foot,

hooked

to my key chain?

then i see my dog

in the corner

gnawing and

chewing on something with

white and grey fur.

quickly i find my

St. Christopher's medal

and put it on.

people think i'm friendly

i know

this town, the roads,

which

bridge to take

to get into town.

what stores are open,

which

ones are closed.

i wave

to the people i know,

and some

that i don't know.

i smile and say things like

howdy,

and hello.

i appear to be

very friendly

at least the people that don't

know me,

think so.

a new career

it's a long

walk

through the woods

to Whole Foods

for some organic peaches.

i have to go

over

the stream,

the six lane

highway,

then

past the gas station,

the Dunkin donuts

and

DMV.

i try to pick up the pace

but 

my foot hurts.

i have blisters so i stop

and take

my shoes off,

setting my hat on the curb

beside me.

people

begin to walk by

and throw money into

the hat.

someone gives me a box

of band aids

and some Neosporin.

people are good.

i get it now.

why work. why get up

every morning

and slave away for money

when

i can sit here in the sun

with my shoes

off.

i don't know what i'm doing

because

i don't know what i'm doing.

i hit all

the buttons

hoping to solve the problem

on my computer.

where have all

my favorites gone.

the bar is clean,

my Target

my Home Goods,

my DMV,

my Amazon, etc. all gone.

now i'll have to take the time

to type

in each place

by hand all over again.

it's a daily

mystery this machine.

it's maddening.

microsoft, edge, bing,

msn,

windows,

what the hell.

maybe this button over here.

let's try that.

the pink chiffon dress

do you

mind if i stop and put air into

my tires,

i ask

her, as we head out

on a date.

i need gas too,

and the windshield is full

of bugs.

maybe we can

give it a quick wash.

sure, she says,

sitting there in her pink

chiffon dress,

a flower

in her hair, smelling like

roses.

can you give me

a hand

with the pump, i ask,

pointing with my thumb

to the back.

it's in the trunk. here

put these gloves on.

maybe these overalls too.

love the dress by the way.

the thin yellow moon

a thin

yellow moon

makes you wonder,

makes

you neither sad or happy

as you

sit on the front

porch

before sleep,

but

questioning

the universe and everything

in it.

me

you. others.

impossible.

all of it.

escape

it's a good

book,

a page turner that you

don't want

to put down.

but you do.

you want it to last.

the twists and turns.

you want

the story

to go on and on.

you want the hero

to win out.

for the sun to rise

in the morning.

for all to be well

once more

like it was in 

the beginning.

a page or two a day

is enough.

the book waits for

you

when you get home,

ready for

your eyes and hands.

ready

to take you out of your

day.

the antler hat

you see the posted

signs,

the orange

signs tacked to trees along

the path.

the hunters

are setting up for the winter

kill.

deer mostly.

thinning the herd.

for the rest

of winter you wear

your

bright green vest as you

ride your

bike

down the wooded

path.

no longer wearing your

hat with antlers

that you got

last Christmas.

the lemon drop in culottes

she was

never happy unless

she was

unhappy,

i see her face on the old

video tapes.

a lemon

drop

in culottes.

a tiara on her head.

grouchy, pushing the camera

away.

oh those

fun days.

my son would say, dad,

her birthday

is coming up,

what can we get her

that will

put a smile on her face?

make her happy,

at least for one day.

nothing,

son, nothing.

she likes being this way.

where is your money? we miss you.

the bank

calls to tell me to put

more money

in.

to take out a loan,

to shift

cash around.

buy a car, a house,

maybe a boat.

come on in

and talk to us.

your accounts are getting

thin.

where have you been?

Kamil at the drive-thru

misses you.

we feel like you're

slipping away.

trying to be on your own.

that you're cheating

us.

that your money

is sleeping

with someone else.

come on in,

we have a lollipop

for you,

we have high interest

rates on CDs,

low rates on loans.

the Sunday kitchen

there was the garlic press,

the lemon

or orange

machine

that squeezed, using your muscles,

the juice out,

with or

without the skin.

nothing electric.

a row of bottled spices

on a rack

above the stove.

the red and white

checkered

Betty Crocker Cookbook,

well worn,

open again.

the gizmo that

you put a potato in,

making

long strands come out

the other end.

there was the handheld

mixer,

that twirled around,

the potato peeler.

an enormous iron skillet.

a pan for twelve cupcakes

to fit in.

flour and sugar was everywhere.

mashers and mallets,

graters,

rolling pins.

tins for bread

and cutting boards of real wood,

salt and pepper shakers

that resembled

dogs.

the yellow curtains,

handmade, hung over

the window,

neatly pressed.

i've lost interest in apples

it's a noisy

affair

this apple being bitten

into

over and over

again

not satisfying hunger

exactly,

but still something

going in.

hardly

sweet, part sour,

i've lost interest in apples

over the years,

as i have with

many things.

what's the proper number of plants one should have

what's the proper

number

of plants one might have

in their

house?

i ask Eve, my tentative

new girlfriend, as she bends

over with a

pot of water,

dribbling it onto a large

leafy plant

by the window.

oh, she says.

one cannot have too many

plants.

not ever.

as you can see i love plants.

i like my world to be full of green.

yes, yes,

indeed, i tell her, pushing

an enormous

branch out of my face,

that springs back

and nearly puts my eye out.

oh, be careful

with that one, she says.

she's quite sensitive to touch.

now say

you're sorry.

i try to pull a vine off my leg

that has begun

to circle it.

huh?

you want me to tell the plant

i'm sorry.

yes, but not in that tone

of voice.

whisper to her, tell her that everything

is okay.

cup a leaf to your mouth

and whisper

as if it's a lover. i'm sorry

dear if i've hurt you.

ummm.

you know what,

i think i need to be going now.

i may have left

the iron on in the basement.

do you have a pair

of clippers handy?

this prickly vine is getting tighter

around my leg.

and that Venus Flytrap has one

of my fingers.

let the night roll on

does anything

taste

better, or is more satisfying

than breakfast

in a diner

at three in the morning

with our friends,

all of us

in our twenties, after

a night

of drinking

and dancing,

chasing girls,

as men do at that

age, maybe every age.

puppies without a leash

on the prowl.

bring on

the coffee pot,

the toast and jam, the eggs,

and waffles,

the sausage

and bacon. let

us laugh about the ones

that got away,

at the night behind us.

let the night roll on,

may it never end.

before we even go

before

we even leave, i want to be home.

before the bus,

the taxi,

the train

then plane carrying our

bags

from one port

to another,

i want to be home again.

before the rented room,

the meals,

the surf and sand,

the climb up

some foreign hill, i want to be

back.

feet up, taking a nap.

before the pose

before the Pyramids,

the Grand Canyon,

the Eiffel Tower

and the Great Wall of China,

before we even lock

the door and go,

saying farewell to home

sweet home,

i want to be home.

something's happening here

is there

something in the water?

in the air,

the food,

something that's making so many

people

crazy,

thinking that they're girls

instead of boys,

boys

instead of girls.

what's going on here?

the crazies

are taking over the world.

there's not just one screw loose,

it's a dozen.

get them help,

don't agree with them,

don't coddle their disfunctions,

show them love

and concern

and find treatment,

stop acting like this is normal,

before it gets worse and

all things

go to hell.

the souvenir sunburn from Cancun

we were in Mexico once

upon a time.

six days, five nights.

we took the red eye in

to Cancun.

it rained nearly every day

we were there.

the tv was out.

the wind blew hard

on the beaches, making waves

in the pool.

trees bent over.

we ate, we drank blue drinks

with fruit on the rims.

we made love until we didn't want to look

at each other anymore.

we stopped talking

after we got sick

and lay down on the cold tiled

bathroom floor.

we waited for the rain to stop,

staring off into the distance

from our balcony on the twelfth floor

at the storm

over the Gulf of Mexico.

on the last day the sun came out

and we both got sunburned

from head to toe,

which we took home with us.

it was the last trip we ever took

together.

jungle land

the zoo

used to be fun when you were ten.

how exciting it was

to see a bear

or a lion, a monkey swinging

from a tree.

how we held our

noses at the stink.

the scary snakes

all wound up

like striped garden hoses.

the elephants,

humungous grey beasts

getting washed

down

by hoses.

the ostriches and pandas,

the gorilla

staring back at you like

a pork chop

that he wanted to eat.

you had the strange feeling though

that none of them

were happy,

they'd rather be free and running

in the jungle,

or down K street.

it's how you felt

when stuck at your desk for

twelve years in

school.

and someone looked into

a window

to take a peek.

the 11 a.m. Kaiser appointment

i go in for a check up

from

the neck up and below.

the nurse takes my temperature,

weighs me,

takes 

my blood pressure

then tells me to remove

all my clothes.

really?

i say to her. yes. the doctor,

Dr. Lovelace

will be in shortly

to examine you.

i shrug and say okay,

unlacing my

shoes.

i get down to my fruit of the looms

and wait,

scratching at the little bump

on my arm

that i want her to take a look at.

finally, a half an hour later,

she comes into

the room

with a stethoscope around

her neck

and stares at me.

oh my, she says, her eyes

widening.

her glasses on the tip of her nose.

be still my heart.

hey, i tell her, this was not my

idea,

the nurse told me to do

this. i just have this bump

on my arm....look...

okay, okay, she says,

calm down, relax.

can i pour you

a drink?

she takes a bottle of Grey Goose

out from the little fridge

beside the sink

where she keeps insulin,

i suppose,

and tosses some

ice cubes

into a pair of dixie cups,

then dims the light.

suddenly Barry White

is singing from

the speakers up above.

You're My First, My Last,

My Everything.

i take the cup from her

and look around the dimly lit room,

leaning back on the paper laden chair.

by the way,

before we get started here,

i ask her,

any crackers? cheese?

maybe a small bowl of pretzels?

i haven't had lunch yet

i'm already feeling dizzy.

finding a way to ignore the world

the wind

in

the white sails

is pushing

the boats down the river.

people

wave

from their

boats,

people wave back from

the shore.

it's dream like.

it's not

real.

they've found a way

to ignore

the rest

of the world.

applying for the dishwasher job

we can't use

you here, the manager tells me,

but

listen kid,

you have potential,

go back to school,

get some experience under

your belt,

help your mother at home,

wash, dry,

you know the deal,

and we'll see in a few

years.

keep your chin up.

i see good things in your future.

stay out of trouble,

okay?

now off you go.

a slow roll through Hot Shoppes

we loved

our cars, how hard we worked

on them,

made

them faster,

the hood up on a Saturday

with points

and plugs,

keeping them clean

and waxed.

the car was everything back

then.

the cruising around

the block,

into town, through

Hot Shoppes,

slowing down with the music

loud,

wanting to be known,

to be seen.

strange to see the same

car today,

still purple

with tattooed flames,

rusting in our parent's

driveway,

up on blocks,

surrounded

by weeds.

natures way

about a thirty

yards

out in the cold lake, rippled

with last

nights icing.

i see a stranded duck, leg

entangled

in the weeds and brush,

the trunk

of a fallen tree.

he flaps hard

to free himself,

calls out

in his way.

but no one comes.

not me,

not them.

not anyone.

not everyone or everything

can be saved.

some birds are okay

some

birds are okay.

nice

birds,

with a soft whistle.

never

pecking at my head,

or bothering cats

like cat

birds do,

not mean

like the blue jays,

or ravenous

like vultures.

some birds are okay.

the religious ones like

cardinals,

and sparrows,

however

the fat

city pigeons

with rainbow breasts,

and yellowed claws,

not so much.

you can hardly

sit down

and eat a bagel

in NYC without

a congregation gathering

at your feet.

let's go out for breakfast

breakfast

is nearly ready, i smell the burned

toast

and charred

bacon,

hear the dish breaking

on the floor.

the spill

of orange juice and her scream

when she burns

her hand

on the coffee pot.

the smoke

alarm goes off.

true love

overlooks so many things.

going into the repair and restore shop

the plumber

tells me that he's getting two

new knees

and a hip

for Christmas,

so perhaps you should schedule

your work

now, he says.

i tell him

about my cataract surgery

and seven

new teeth implants.

my sister's getting

a new kidney

on Friday,

and my aunt just had a chip

put into her

head

so that she can hear now.

that's nothing, he says.

my brother got a new heart,

last year,

and my wife

just got new breasts. here,

take a look.

he shows me a picture of his wife

on his phone.

ooo la la, i tell him.

there's definitely a lot of shade

under her now.

the enormous wasp nest

the large

wasp

nest in the top corner

of the window

is getting larger.

i can hear

them

busy with their lives

swarming,

raising their little wasp

children.

working hard as always

with what they

do,

whatever that is.

i hear them talking,

laughing,

telling tall tales

about how they

stung someone earlier

in the day

who tried to swat

them away

with a newspaper.

newspapers, they laugh,

imagine that,

like it's 1958.

who reads

the paper these days?

stung him

right under his arm

anyways.

don't you dare help our city

for the first

time

in a hundred years

no one

was killed or murdered

in the nations capitol

for nearly

two weeks.

all crime

is down.

hijackings

and robberies,

rape

and mayhem.

what a wonderful thing.

and yet.

don't bring

your help to our city,

to our town.

we like it just

like it is.

chaos and lawlessness,

more murders, more

killings,

more dead

kids.

we got this.

the tunnel of love

it was fun

at one time, the carnival in the empty

lot

by Sears and Roebuck's,

Penny's

and Firestone.

the tall noisy

rides,

the spinning carousel,

the fun

house

with crooked floors

and bent

mirrors. blasts of steam

rising

from out of nowhere.

everyone's a winner,

three balls

for a dollar.

balloons and cherry ice,

cotton

candy

and caramel corn.

the tunnel of love, a short

scary ride through

a darkened entrance.

will it help? it might

as the needle

bends and

slips

into a soft spot of my

knee

i feel

the sting

of lidocaine burn

bright.

the cortisone flows

out

into the bloodstream,

the ligaments

and surround.

will it

help.

it might.

crossing the stream barefoot

we take

our shoes off to cross the stream,

low from

lack of rain

this summer.

we want to picnic

on the other side.

she holds my hand

as we navigate the rocks,

the gravel,

small fish

and unknown things.

the cold rush of water

bites against our

ankles.

we might make it

without falling,

we might not.

in time, we'll see.

will there be jello in heaven

will there

be Jello in heaven, my young

son asks,

as he scoops

a spoon full

of the strawberry gel

into his mouth,

a dollop of whipped

cream

stuck to his nose.

why are you

already

worried about heaven? i ask him.

we have

to get you past

going to hell

first.

4 piece spicy

i've seen them

on the side of the road,

the big

yellow

and brown signs,

saying

Cracker Barrel, but i've never

thought to stop

and eat at

their fine establishment.

all things

fried and

gravy

on everything has never

appealed to me.

although i do like the spicy

four-piece dark

chicken

at Popeye's,

despite the regret

that is always soon to follow.

breaking bread

so much

of the Bible involves

the breaking

of bread.

feeding the masses,

having meals

with foes

and friends,

with

miraculously multiplying

loaves

of fresh baked

sourdough

and rustic breads.

there seemed to be no

concern for 

carbs back then,

no worries about gluten.

what a glorious time

it was to live.

with faith and doubt

the best

churches are the old churches.

the stone,

the wood,

stained windows

of blue

and gold,

green

and red cut shards

of glass,

the scent of candles

with sins forgiven

lying about

in dark confessionals,

the

imprints of a hundred

years

of knees bent,

the weathered bibles

and hymnals,

the old priest

in black,

methodically

cleaning a gold chalice,

haggard with faith,

with doubt.

send in the drones, bombs away

so fentanyl kills

over 70 thousand people a year,

every year

in this country alone.

not to mention heroin

and crack

cocaine,

we know

everything there is to know

about

who's making it,

who's selling it, the exact

locations of where

it's made,

a hop skip and jump away,

and yet we do nothing

but whine about it

and put another child into

an early grave.

what's up with that?

send in the drones,

bombs away.

the landlord at the door

the landlord, who is the super

of the building

too,

is at the door.

i can hear

the mop and metal bucket

he carries

with him,

the grey water sloshing

around.

he wants rent money.

i tell him

next week, he says no.

today, or your out on your

keister

tomorrow.

i ask him what keister means.

is that even a word

these days?

which makes

him laugh.

i tell him there's bugs in

the kitchen,

a mouse crying under the sink,

caught in a trap,

and the pipes are keeping

me awake all night

honking like trombones.

okay, okay,

tomorrow, he yells back.

like bugs in a kitchen when the light goes on

i like watching

the Tik Tok videos of cops

chasing perpetrators,

tackling them

in the street

and then twisting their arms

around to hand cuff

them.

the suspects are usually

drunk

or on drugs, half dressed,

with warrants out

for their arrest.

they toss bags of white powder

into the bushes,

along with

handguns.

they almost seem relieved

to be caught

at times,

sitting in back of the cop

car,

asking for a cigarette,

while the cop gives them

back their

flip flops, or a pack of gum.

it's strangely satisfying.

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.