the starter home on Pleasure Cove Court

i remember

the real estate agent saying

with pride

that this would be a great

starter home

for us kids

as we began

our journey as newlyweds.

it was a narrow

town house

with blue vinyl siding,

each house like the other

and the other,

in courts and rows

with names like Pleasure Cove.

he showed

us where the baby would

sleep once born,

and the next child.

how tall the ceilings were

for bunk beds.

he pulled up the blinds

to show us

the view from the window

revealing the playground

with swings

and a slide,

and in the distance

the middle school.

almost walking distance.

he showed us the yard

where we could put

a grill and have

cook outs,

big enough for a little doghouse,

telling us that he loved

dogs too.

he displayed with open hands

the unfinished basement

that we could turn into an

exercise room.

we signed on the dotted line

on the wobbly

card table

in the dining room.

that was forty years ago.

i'm on my third dog now

and second wife, though that too

is on shaky ground.

the kids are all grown

and living

in Seattle,

but i'm sitll here living in

the starter home,

though

minus the orange shag carpet,

which immediately

had to go, day one.

who voted for these people?

you wonder sometimes

how these people got elected.

who voted

for these

crumb bums?

who put them into office

to rule

over us?

dumb as rocks,

unkind,

uncouth.  prancing around

like peacocks

with no common sense.

how has it happened

that we ended up

with so many

dopes

in congress,

in the senate?

they can't seem to agree

on anything,

nothing profound

ever comes out of their mouths,

no wisdom,

few truths,

just a bunch of babble

and nonsense.

too nice of a day

there

were no clouds that day.

just

the blue

of sky,

and the yellow warmth of sun,

not a whiff

of grey

or white,

nothing but the grand

view

of what heaven

might be like.

so you expected bad things

to happen

before long,

you paced

nervously,

biting your nails, 

expecting

them to occur

at any given time.

the indigo sweatshirt

i couldn't wear

it anymore,

my favorite blue jersey

that i bought

in 1975.

once indigo blue,

now

faded and torn,

frayed, full of holes.

once big and thick,

how many winters did

it keep me warm?

how many

runs along the beach did i

wear it

on summer mornings,

how many nights

did i sleep in it

when the heat wouldn't

go on?

but i couldn't wear it anymore,

the collar gone,

the sleeves

ripped apart,

so i folded what was

left of it and stuck it in

the dresser,

top drawer.

the whole ugly town was covered in snow

we had

snow back then.

we loved

snow.

we loved the roads

being covered,

the houses,

the chain linked fences,

the garbage

cans

all in a row,

the telephone lines

laced

with snow,

the old bowling alley

with the caved

in roof

covered

in it.

the dump

surrounded by barbed

wire,

the whole ugly town

from

the grocery

store

to the liquor store,

to the schools,

to the shelters and soup

kitchens,

all of it covered and gone

disappeared

under the thick cold

curtain

of snow.

it was wonderful.

all with a grain of salt

some of this

is true.

some is, some isn't,

it's up to you

to weed

out the lies,

to sift through

the embellishments

to discern what is 

or isn't true, 

believe what you want,

i'll leave that

up to you.

her white feet dangling out the window

the first

thing i noticed about her was

her white

feet

that dangled out of

the truck

window

as she waited for me at

Hunan West.

she was nice enough though

to put her

sandals

on as we went in to eat.

she told me she was in AA,

trying to kick

the habit of too many drinks.

i asked her if it was okay

if i ordered a Mai Tai, she said fine,

then two became three,

by the end of the night

after General Tao's chicken

and rice

she was sucking on the orange

slices, eating chunks

of pineapple

from my glass.

after she stuck the tiny purple

umbrella

behind her ear,

i drove her to a meeting,

where they had

my Achille's heel,

chocolate cake.

visiting the pet store

there's a pet

store

in the strip mall next to the nail

salon

and the coffee

shop.

there's a bowl

of gold

fish

in the window, a glass

box

full of turtles

next to a parrot.

in the back

there's a chimpanzee

swinging

on a bar

making monkey noises.

we put our faces to the window

to peer in.

dogs are barking

in cages, while a black cat,

sitting free

on the sill

washes herself with a paw,

oblivious

to it all.

investing in tear gas cannisters and masks

i invest

in a company that makes tear gas

cannisters.

the stock

has been rising

exponentially

for the last year or so.

and gas

masks.

not to mention bull horns,

and magic

markers to make

signs.

as well as blue hair dye

and nose rings.

my broker at Morgan

Stanely

says that there is no end in sight

to the riots

and chaos

around the world.

invest

heavily she says.

next summer will be

a gold mine.

are we talking about muffins here?

she asked

me

what my favorite muffin was.

i pondered

the question.

anything warm

from the oven, i told her.

sweet

and iced.

something that puts a smile

on my face

when i take a bite

after removing the little apron.

she laughed and said,

i know your kind,

i know what you're looking for.

you want

a one-night stand,

don't you?

shame on you,

you old man.

no, i told her, just a muffin.

just a warm

muffin

from the oven, 

and coffee, that will do.

when Moe's burned down

we used

to go to Moe's Diner

for

breakfast.

the four of us.

aging

buddies, all single now,

happily

divorced.

Betty was on the grille.

fat Al was

somewhere in the back

room

with the door closed

giving instructions

to a new

waitress. it was

greasy

food,

the ceiling was greasy,

the vinyl

seats

were slick with the grease

of ten thousand

strips

of bacon,

a million scrambled eggs.

the coffee was strong, and stale,

yesterdays,

but

how could we stop going.

this was home

away from home.

finally we

did

when at last it burned down.

coming of age

when

at last of age,

to drink

to go into a seedy nightclub

where

women

danced in less clothes

than you'd

ever seen.

the smoke filled room

was confusing.

is this

what it's all about?

is this

what being a grown up

is?

and the old men

sipping

weak

drinks, in trances, elbows

on the table

holding stacks

of one-dollar bills.

still

looking for an answer,

as Ginger

leaned

in with her long legs and

gruesome

smile

to wink.

the apple tree

she talks

longingly about the apple tree

that was

in her yard.

years ago,

decades ago,

before her hair turned white.

she tells

me how red they were,

how sweet

and juicy.

how easy it was to reach up,

or to climb upon

the branches

and pick

one off.

there were so many apples

on the ground,

we made so many

pies

those days, she says.

so much cider.

and for Halloween we made

candy apples.

it was so much

fun

when i was young climbing

that

that apple tree, i can almost

see it now,

feel the scrape of the trunk

against my knees.

keep it to yourself, i can't be trusted

don't burden

me

with your secrets, don't

fill up

my promise drawer

with more

of what

i can't tell anyone.

i'm a leaky

faucet

when it comes to secrets,

a broken hinge,

a cracked window,

an open door.

i'm bound

to eek out

anything you tell me,

so don't tell me anything

anymore.

just lunch

the fat

bear on the edge of the wild

river,

sets his

feet

on the rocks, his mouth

open,

and magically,

a large

salmon jumps

and goes in,

which he bites down upon

before it falls out.

there's no work

to be done,

no shopping,

no stove

or plates on a table,

no forks

and knives,

just lunch.

unlearning

not everyday

is

a day

of learning, sometimes,

you

unlearn,

you

go backwards, erasing

the lesson

bought hard

in the past.

one step

forward,

two back. tomorrow

you'll

do better though,

you cross your heart,

you promise

yourself

to do that.

just one more game

i miss

the bumps and bruises,

the muscle 

aches,

the sprains.

the sound

the balls makes

going through a basket

or swirling

through

the air to open hands.

i miss the rough housing

of sports

played

on the field

or black top courts.

the crack of a bat,

the thud

of a ball in the mud,

the rain,

the new fallen snow.

the sprint

on freshly cut lawns.

the jostling for an inch,

the joy,

the despair of it all.

i miss

the bloody nose,

even the broken bones,

the comradery of men.

oh, to be young again

once more,

for just one more game.

the best conversations

some of the best

conversations i've ever had

were

with myself.

sometimes

while taking a long

walk through the woods,

or while

lying in bed,

listening to a fly

buzz

against the screen,

or

in the quiet of a Sunday

morning

when the door has been

shut

after someone leaves,

or during the night at

3 a.m.

i get a lot of clear thinking

done.

saying out loud,

yup,

there it is.

what's done is done.

don't look back, among

other wise

and insightful

things.

a box of linguini

i notice

when opening the top

door

of the tall cupboard

that

the box of linguini

has been

knocked over

and tunneled through.

the box

is empty.

mice

have found their

way in

from the air vent, i guess.

i see no

sign of them, no squeaks,

no note

saying thank you.

i wonder how

they got back out, fattened

by the carbs.

i add

linguini

to the grocery list.

late night tv

i think

the last late night television show

i watched

was Letterman,

but his early years,

i loved seeing

watermelons

thrown off of buildings,

and before that was Carson

with Rickles and 

Dangerfield,

Lola Falana, 

Dean and Frank, etc.

i've never saw

a night of Leno,

or any of the others.

whoever they are.

young whipper snappers

making a pile

of dough.

i don't know what channel

they're on,

what time?

what exactly is the fuss about.

lying?

who cares. it's expected in

these times.

in his ninth decade

the reviews

are unkind to Zimmy.

he turns his back

to the audience,

he doesn't greet

them,

or introduce the band, he's

in the shadows,

dressed darkly,

hands on the keyboard of a

piano.

you can't see his face,

you don't recognize

his music,

or the words coming out

of his mouth.no one sings

along.

it's a garbled mess,

but the band

plays on.

it's another sold out crowd.

how dare you be rich

as the cities

burn,

in chaos, people dressed

in black,

scurrying

everywhere

like a mob of sewer rats,

rioters

looting and attacking

the police in

Paris

and Nepal, London

and New York,

you

wonder

if it will be safe enough

to do some

shopping

and then go to the park

for a picnic,

probably not,

but

there's a sale

on bullet proof vests

and gas masks

at Target.

i'll get a cart.

the ac on, the ac off

it's one

of those weeks

of fluctuating temperatures.

neither

fall or summer.

80 one day,

60 the next.

the ac on, the ac off.

it's a battle

of wills

between me and the woman

crying

in the other room.

i sneak

the button off,

she sneaks it back on.

i pull

the windows open,

she pushes

them down.

but off course in the end

she wins.

after all,

she's crying.

at least for now.

a man or woman in uniform

growing up

in the neighborhood, whoever

had a

uniform on,

was given a certain amount

of respect,

whether the badge

on a cop,

the clerk in a store

with his tag,

the doctor

or nurse in white,

the soldier

coming home from war,

the janitor sweeping up

the school floor.

the toll both woman

in her green

shirt

and cap,

the workers on the road

in their lime

green vests

waving you forward.

the uniform was noticed.

these were people

in charge,

people of some importance.

you gave them

respect.

get a job

when

you hit a certain age,

someone

told you to

get a job, go to school

and get

a job,

do both.

work part time,

summers,

school breaks.

bring in some money,

learn

to save,

learn how to spend.

get a job,

don't be a bum,

don't be so dependent

on your parents,

your grandparents, 

your friends,

the government. get a

freaking job.

you're not a baby in

the crib anymore.

get a job.

so you did.

when the officiant does your wedding in the basement (true story)

i think

his name was Herman

Goldman,

who came

to the house to be the officiant

for our

wedding.

Cruella found him on the Thumbtack

site an hour ago.

he was wearing a short

sleeved

button down

checkered shirt,

and 

a pair of oversized American

Eagle jeans

with a big green belt.

the shirt was tucked in

close to his

pocket protector

full of pens.

he sat down with his folder

of vows,

and ceremonial procedures,

each laminated

and marked

with colored tabs.

i had set out some bottles

of war

and mixed nuts

for him to snack on while

we discussed our wedding.

may i, he asked

dipping his

hand into the nuts.

i have to be careful of the almonds,

those little slivers

get stuck in the back of my throat.

so, what are we doing here?

he asked,

crunching on some cashews.

Protestant, Baptist, Catholic?

or no God at all?

we can adjust the vows as we go

along.

we can also do the express,

or the long versions if you want

to film it.

i brought my equipment in

the car. of course that will bump

up the fee.

i can get my daughter over here to be

the flower girl,

she's working

at Taco Bell, but can get free for

an hour or so.

i looked at my bride to be,

who scrunched up her nose

in that cute way she used to do,

like a kitty cat.

she said no.

no pictures, or cameras please.

i'm not having a good

hair day,

and i haven't worked on my face

yet, and also,

i don't want the vows

to say, till death do us part, or

in sickness and in health, or

anything about me obeying him.

gothca, he said, licking

his fingers,

turning the pages of his notebook,

mumbling to himself.

i think i have the exact thing

right here for you.

it's very close to the Pagan and Wicka

rituals,

but you want God to be

involved, right? i think i saw

a set a rosary beads hanging

from your mirror when i came in. right?

we both nod yes to the idea

of God being involved.

let's see, let's see, hmmm. i thing page

one hundred and ninety-three

is the right one for you. yup.

and how about you sir, any requests

or changes that you can think of right now?

umm,

do you take Visa?

of course, of course,

cash, PayPal, Zelle, check, visa,

i take all forms

of legal tender.

excuse me, i have a question, my future

bride said.

once we're officially married, does

that mean

i have complete access to his bank

account and retirement accounts,

and is half the house

mine?

his cars and all the furniture

in the house?

of course, my dear, of course, he

said dipping his hand in

for another scoop

of nuts.

that's what love and marriage is all

about.

what's his is yours.

mi casa es tu casa.

sorry i was in Mexico last week

doing a divorce

in Cancun,

two days after the wedding,

crazy kids,

but you two

are going to make it. i feel it.

i see nothing but a long and happy

future with you two.

at this point, he looked at his watch,

and said okay, let's get this

show on the road,

the basement? right?

don't mean to rush, but i have another

wedding, then

a funeral,

and then a baptism coming

up today. by the way,

these nuts are making me thirsty,

okay if i take

a bottle of water down with me?

finding the right prayer

in

the heat of fever

and 

sleep,

the sweat

upon

your pillow, soaking

the sheets,

the fiery

ache of pain in every

bone

of your dying body,

did you

pray

for God to save you,

or to make

it quick,

did you pray

that it's okay

to take me now,

just ease off the pain

a little bit,

please.

very clean and shiny stoops

it seemed

that anyone with a front

porch

of three steps

in South Philly,

made of marble, had

to get out

there and scrub them on a

Saturday morning, which

is what my mother's

mother did.

with

a bucket of soapy water,

and a scrub brush.

she was in a long dress, usually

black, because

she was always in mourning

for someone.

she went at it

on her hands

and knees, both turning raw

and red,

until it was clean, ending

the work with one

last bucket of water

to rinse, making

a loud satisfying splash.

the no fail divorce diet

when i went

through

a divorce, after finding

out my

wife was

sleeping

with my son's karate teacher,

Carlos,

disappearing for

three day

weekends with a flower

in her hair,

i lost

a lot of weight.

it was amazing

how the pounds fell off

of me

from worry

and stress, having no appetite

for food.

i had to make extra notches

in my belt

to keep my

pants up.

i'd hear her learning Spanish

in the other room,

as she

listened to audio tapes

from Rosetta Stone.

repeating words and phrases.

Ola, she'd say

when i came into the room.

in time

my cheeks went shallow,

my stomach flattened

my legs and

arms

became spindles

as i ignored for months

on end,

any kind of food.

in the end, i weighed exactly

what i did in high school

after breaking up with the captain

of the cheerleaders,

Vivian.

maybe get a life?

i've

never worried much about

the rain

forest,

or global warming,

or pesticides,

i don't even

recycle,

separating paper

and plastic,

although i guess i should,

it would

make me a better

person i suppose

to maybe do a march once

in a while

in support of some far left

cause, to

scream and yell,

block some roads,

call

the police names, etc.

but

i just don't feel like it.

there's enough nuts out

there already,

doing such things, plus

when you're busy

with your life,

things don't seem as bad

as they

claim to be.

looking for work

the long

tall

neanderthal man

on the corner

who's been there for years

with his

chair

and bucket, his sign,

saying God Bless

America,

brother can you spare

a dime.

asks me

for a business

card as he

approaches

my car,

the window open.

i'm thinking about a different

line of work,

he says,

scratching his beard.

so i give him my card.

sometimes he calls, i can

hear him

breathing,

his familiar coughing.

but he says nothing.

i don't know where this

might be

leading,

so i drive a different route

now.

the loop of carousel music

do i want

ice cream when i hear

the haunting

music

from the old truck rolling

slowly

down

the street,

the children appearing

out nowhere

rushing towards

the open window.

no, it's not ice cream

that i want,

with a handful

of nickels

in my pocket,

it's not ice cream

that i long for,

i want my childhood

back.

four burly men from Linthicum

four burly

men

come over at the crack of ten a.m.

to gut

and renovate

my 1968

bathrooms.

pirates

with earrings

and tattoos, 

scars and bellies

full of Maryland food.

crabs

and hushpuppies

most likely,

and cold beer.

they've driven all the ways

from Linthicum,

near Baltimore, in their

big white

vans.

ten hours later.

minus twenty grand,

i'm

standing there

staring into the white

bliss

of a new

tub and shower.

i'll never have to take a bath

with the hose

in the back yard

again.

time of the season

as we

romantically dance around the kitchen,

our favorite

song

on the radio,

by the Zombies

is playing.

we swirl

and swing around.

she does a little

dipsy doo

type move.

it's fall out, and the windows

are open.

leaves are

floating to the ground.

we kiss,

we dance some more.

life is good

again.

until her dress catches fire

when she bumps

up against

the stove.

bye bye

who?

what show?

what's his name?

what time

was he on?

how long has he been

on tv?

really?

hmm, interesting.

never heard of him.

comedian?

cancelled?

oh, well.

that's a shame.

a ghoulish dish

the rancid

stew

of the internet is a ghoulish

dish

served

daily

with sprinkles of lies

and hate.

with the heat turned up,

it's a strange

brew

of humanity gone off

the rails.

something there

for me,

something there 

for you.

there's plenty of gristle

floating

in the gruel to chew.

crazy Jake in the passenger seat

on the way

to work in my old

red truck,

Jake,

my worker bee would yell

out the window

at women

walking by,

or at the bus stop.

young or old,

it didn't matter.

i had to use the child lock

so that he

couldn't roll

it down anymore.

Jake, please, i'd tell him,

as he yelled

at a pregnant woman

on the corner,

in her second trimester,

telling her,

hey, i know what you've

been doing.

the way we were

i feel

old, she tells me,

doing stretches

in the living room as the dog

stares

at her from

the couch.

she touches

her toes,

and says,

one two,

three four.

i'm not young anymore.

my best

days are behind me.

i feel chunky.

i lower the newspaper,

and say,

what?
did you say something?

i rattle the newspaper

and hold it out

for her to see.

hey there's an

old movie

in town,

Three Day of the Condor,

want to go see it?

Robert 
Redford. you loved him.

she moans with the last

jumping jack,

and grunts,

sure.

where did we go wrong

the child

seemed normal, you

did

all the right

things,

love,

comfort, food and shelter,

you were

there when

he took his

first steps,

you bathed and clothed

him,

carried him

in your arms,

took him to school.

to church.

you honored him for years,

he was

your shining star.

but you

had no idea what was

going on

underground, the evil

forces who

twisted

his supple

brain, convincing him

of a darker

world otherwise,

absent of light.

and now he's on a roof

with a gun.

here's my card, please call

thanks

for tapping me

on the shoulder

and warning me

about

the puddle i was

about to step into.

that was kind of you.

i'm not

used to such

courtesy

and niceness.

here's my card, my

number,

my name

and address. please,

please call.

i need a person 

like you

in my life.

an eventual spring

the trees

have put on new clothes.

have you

noticed

the festival of colors,

do you care,

or have you lived too many

days

and years to be

aware

of such things, now

full of regret

and disappointment

at the coming

of winter.

unable to see an

eventual spring?

i'm so so busy now

i write

down the things i need to get done

today.

the post office,

the bank,

the grocery store,

take a walk,

get gas in the car.

maybe do some laundry,

fold and put

the clothes away.

there's a lightbulb

in the hall that needs to be

replaced.

season a chicken

and put it

in the oven.

i have a few calls to make.

Lord how i miss

working

when i had no time for

such things.

the google search

you

can't help yourself sometimes,

you just

have

to find out what

happened to people,

where are they now,

did they

remarry,

get sick and die, move,

and move

again.

are they doing

okay,

are they in jail,

did they retire,

did they ever get that dog

they always

talked

about?

there's no need to say

hello,

or how are you,

you just have a hankering

to know

sometimes.

stopping to eat

great

loaves of rain clouds,

rolled grey,

darkening

and low

is what

we see as we drive north

on the interstate.

heading

home from some holiday.

we've been

silent for hours.

the wind

has picked up.

she says to me

with no inflection in her voice,

it looks

like rain.

i tell her. i agree.

when it hits we'll pull over,

okay?

are you

hungry?

i will be, she says. i will be.

then touches

my hand,

in apology.

after further review

i'm not shocked

anymore,

i'm not

surprised,

or dismayed about people

anymore.

i expect

people

to be mean and nasty,

to be rotten

to the core.

people are basically

horrible

human beings

once you pull

their masks off.

the snooze alarm

i use

to wear the snooze button out

when

younger,

delaying the day

for another ten minutes.

just ten

more precious

minutes,

was all i needed,

then another ten,

until finally someone would

come into

the room

and pull the covers

off of me,

and the dog would

leap onto

the bed to lick

my face.

get up, she'd say.

you're going to be late.

the wide dry field

i'm

out of ink,

out of paper, out of patience

waiting

for the next

idea

to arrive, to spring forward

like a seed

planted

in spring.

but no.

it's a dry field i'm on

right

now, the dust

is on my shoulders,

i can

taste nothing new.

there's not a cloud in

the sky,

just a deepening

of blue.

the next great flood

it doesn't pass

the smell test, the world at large.

what

the hell

is going on here?

people

cheering and dancing

in the streets,

celebrating

the death

of someone

who has committed no

crime.

has

the tide turned that far?

are we that far

lost,

that far gone?

are we ready for the next

great flood?

i think so.

let it rain. bring it on.

you carry them with you

they say,

that after the first death there

are no

others,

but i tend to disagree,

the line

is long

and slow,

with each new loss,

comes more

grief,

more memories,

only the weight

is different

upon

your shoulders

as you carry them along.

the late night ham sandwich

as

i cut this tomato

in half,

then into thin

slices

with my ginseng knife

that i bought

at three a.m.

six years ago

on tv,

when i couldn't get to sleep

i wonder where you are.

i lay each

red slice

upon the bread,

with a slice of ham

and Swiss cheese.

then make a diagonal cut,

like you used

to do.

at some point, i'll go

back to bed.

what else is on?

i've always

been disappointed that Mr. Ed,

the talking

horse,

never won an

Emmy,

nor did Gilligan,

or the Captain,

or Mr. Magoo,

or 

the robot on Lost in Space.

what about

Trigger,

or Dale's horse?

Rin tin tin.

these are forgotten heroes

of our

childhood.

Captain Kangaroo,

where for art thou?

Bozo the Clown.

each of them

could outperform

these new

clowns.

who are these people on

the stage

now,

making political statements

dressed like

Christmas ornaments?

her closet full of boots

i like

a girl in boots. long

boots,

horseback riding

boots,

hiking boots. boots

to sashay

around in. boots

of all colors

and fabric.

snow

boots. the frilly ones

for Christmas,

the cowgirl

ones.

show me a girl with a closet

full of boots

and i'll show

you a girl with ambition,

a girl

that's going somewhere,

but not

with me if it's sleeting

and icy out.

always three o'clock

i've made

this cup tea too sweet,

as if

i made

it for my grandmother

as she

sat by her

canary

in the stuffed Italian

chair

by the fire.

she liked Melba toast

too,

as we talked

about the weather

and other

things on her mind.

what do you know about

cuckoo clocks?

she once asked me

pointing at the brown

box on the wall,

with a cardinal stuck

out on

a plank of wood,

it had been three o'clock

since 1952.

nothing, i told her.

i know nothing about such

things.

you've made your point, happy now?

one

side, one crazy

radical

deranged side

of

society is against

the second

amendment,

against,

weapons of all kind,

all guns,

small or large,

of course,

unless they

need one

to make a point

when words and discourse

fail.

happy now?

Noah's ark, a baker's dozen

two

birds, male and female,

mother

and father,

two lions,

two

giraffes,

a boy and girl

elephant,

bears

and kangaroos.

two of nearly everything

alive

entered

the ark,

and then

the humans came aboard,

but they

had to build an extra

deck

as Noah, shook in dismay

his bearded head,

two of each had become

a dozen

as they

raised

the rainbow flag.

lemmings to the cliff

as they

often say,

life is hard, very hard,

but it's

even harder if

you're stupid

and have no

common sense.

thick heads and cold

hearts

are everywhere.

lemmings to the cliff.

you forgot a few things

it's a one

line

story in the back of the newspaper,

woman

finds

her husband

thirty-five years later

after he

left the house to go get milk

and bread.

she opens

the door for him,

leading him

up the steps,

then sends him back out

to get stamps,

and eggs.

building a nest

it comes

to you, as you lick your lips

and clear

your throat,

that something cold

to drink would

be nice

right about now.

but you don't want to get up

and miss

what's transpiring

in the trees

before you.

a red bird

is building a nest.

his wife nearby,

lingering

on a branch.

he'll have a family soon.

the great swan dive

there's

a man on a ledge thirty floors

up,

pigeons

are

there too.

he's hesitant,

undecided, but

the crowd cries for

him to 

jump.

they are living

and dying

in his shoes.

and yet, nothing is burning

it's strange

when you go outside and nothing's

burning,

no buildings or

stores,

no homes,

no cars are on fire.

no statues toppled.

no one is looting,

or rioting

or spray-painting hatred

on the walls.

there is only prayer

and vigils

for someone who has died,

murdered

in cold blood,

who committed

no crime.

how strange the behavior

of a faith filled side.

saving up for my Swedish robot

i take a look

at

my portfolio,

is it possible, are those numbers

real?

a paper boy

from

the Bronx

has that much money

in the bank?

is it real?

probably not, it can all be

gone

in the blink

of an eye, one world

wide

catastrophe,

and poof,

but i hope not.

i'll need a soft bed

at some

point with a view

of the ocean,

and a kind hand to feed

me oatmeal.

probably by then

it will be as sexy Swedish

nurse,

a Tesla robot.

Hazel therapy

i like

to clean, especially when i have

something

on my mind

that i can't do anything about.

but i can

scrub the floor,

dust,

pull the vacuum out.

i can

swirl the blue

liquid into

the toilets and flush,

take

a Brillo pad to the tub.

i can pick

up all the clothes i've

left on

the floor

and throw them into

the washer.

i can open

the fridge

and finally scrape free

the remains

of that iceberg

lettuce,

and toss it out.

by the end of the day

i haven't solved a thing,

but for some reason i feel

better.

ten steps to the door

strange

to wake up sore,

the bones

aching,

the leg stiff, the back

twisted

and bruised.

strange

to slowly crawl out

of bed

measuring the distance

between

you and the bathroom

door.

and Betty wasn't even here

last night.

filling up the trash bin

it's getting

to be

a long list of people

you used

to love

and buy their music,

watch

their movies

and buy their books,

but the herd

has thinned.

they

are wearing their true

colors

upon their chest,

showing us who they really are.

the trash

bin

is getting fuller

by the minute.

Rosalita has come and gone

i take

the long broom to sweep

the tumble

weeds

out from under the bed.

a green lizard

slithers away.

where am I?

Arizona?

New Mexico,

the Baja?

i see a sombrero too,

a margarita glass

and an empty

bottle of tequila.

there's the smell

of a sweet perfume.

i hear a mariachi band

playing out the window,

but Rosalita has come and gone,

love has ended

too soon.

at 5 a.m.

with a slice

of pink sunlight

on the horizon,

i took

aim as i tossed each

newspaper

rolled

into a baton.

it was

rare as i jogged

to not

hit the porch with

one swing of my arm,

the wagon

squeaking,

the dog,

tagging along,

loyal

at my side.

new bruises and wounds

we

need laughter.

love,

friendships. 

beauty and faith,

such

cliche

words that often

fall on

deaf ears,

but true.

without them we

are doomed

to our darker selves.

stuck

within our own skin,

lost in our

own world,

hateful,

cold

and blue.

when oil and water meet

i'm a perfectionist,

she tells me

as we sit and drink coffee

on our first date.

i'm a stickler

for detail, she says, while picking

a tiny piece

of lint off her

sweater,

then flicking a scone crumb

off my sweatshirt.

i like to be organized

and have

everything in place.

i don't like chaos or clutter

around me.

why is that baby crying,

do you hear that?

oh look,

someone brought a dog in here,

can you believe

that?

i nod, sipping on my

drink.

babies, i say, pfft.

and dogs, what the hell,

all that hair

and drooling. they get old,

the vet bills,

then they die.

exactly, she says.

i'm actually a hairless cat person.

she holds up her phone

to show me a picture

of her ghoulish

grey cat.

her name is Demon.

i take a long

look around the room

as i eat my

maple scone

and more crumbs

tumble upon me.

i figure the door is about

a hundred

feet away,

and it would take me

less than ten seconds 

to get out of here

if i zig zag through the crowd.

handling disgruntled friends

i take

on the calm attitude

of the flight

attendant

who echoes repeatedly

buh bye,

as we leave the plane,

buh bye,

they say,

smiling.

out you go, thank you

for coming

aboard,

buh bye.

watch your step as

you go out

the door.

forgiving crazy people

we forgive

our crazy people.

soft

on their mental illness,

we give

them pills,

talk to them calmly

trying to make

them like us.

we tell them it's not

their fault

that they kill

and maim

and wreak havoc

on society.

it's mommy's fault,

daddy's fault.

social economic

conditions.

the man is keeping them down.

we pat them on the back

after a quick

tune up,

and out the door

they go,

to mingle

with the innocent,

better now with a doctor's

stamp

of approval.

the riptide of crime and other deadly things

it's a numbers

game.

the tally of death

giving reason

to whatever

side

you're on,

gun deaths,

death

by knives, death by disease,

or suicide.

400 hundred thousand

a year

die from

cigarettes, shrug,

what's next,

the cars we drive,

countless die

from dog bites, lightning

strikes,

how do we

make it illegal to go

into the ocean

for a swim,

the sharks will bite.

we might drown, pulled

out by

the riptide.

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.