we are the world

there's

no

need to go visit another country.

to eat

their food

and enjoy

their culture.

we have every

country in

the world right here.

why bother

to board a plane

or train,

to sail away to some foreign

land,

the world

has come here to live

and make their way,

leaving their

horrible

lands of birth

for the USA.

just look

out the window,

smell their cuisine

in the air,

observe the flags

they've raised,

get used to it,

they're here to stay.

bent over her garden

i understand

now

why my mother never wanted to go

anywhere

in her later years,

why she liked

to be on her knees

in the wet grass,

the dirt of her yard,

bent over

her flowers, her garden,

for hours

and hours.

i understand why now,

the serenity

in that.

a bread line near you, coming soon

surprisingly,

it's a nice

visit, the Commie Mayor

and the Pres.

they

seem to like each other

despite being

so different in so many ways.

different religions,

different politics,

different

ideas of how to run a city

how taxes

should be paid.

one wants

the people to be free,

to work hard

and save,

responsible for their own

well-being,

while the other one wants

everything to be

free.

for the government to be

their mommy.

this should be fun to watch.

let's wait and see.

the scream that doesn't go away

does she

remember

the time we slow danced

to Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts

Club Band

in her parents

basement,

with the lights dimmed,

her friend

Alice

making out with Cricket

in the corner,

her blouse unbuttoned,

when the gum fell out of my

mouth and got

tangled impossibly

in her long

black hair.

does she remember that

night, i do.

in fact,

i can still hear the scream.

a real estate upgrade

i don't like

things

that leak

or squeak, or splinter,

or rattle,

anything loose

or broken,

that needs repair.

i prefer

good wiring,

lights that don't flicker,

an oven

that warms,

plaster

that doesn't crumble

upon the floor.

no mold or mildew

please.

no broken windows,

or gurgling pipes.

what i'm

saying is, is that

i can't be with you

anymore.

don't tell your sister

the letter

in the mail looks real.

but there's no return address on

the envelope.

dear sir,

it says.

i am a wills

and estate

attorney in Nova Scotia.

someone with your last

name

has died and left twelve million

dollars

to you or any relative

that shows

up by the end of the week.

please call,

soon.

we can split the proceeds

two ways,

if you don't tell anyone,

especially that one

sister of yours.

her blueberry pie

she tries

to win me over by telling me about

the blueberry

pie

she just baked and took

out of the oven.

it's a crumble crust,

she says.

it's warm,

like me.

sweet and juicy. 

made with fresh blueberries

from a country field,

so blue. so easily

to slice

through. you might want

more

once the first piece

is through.

i'll put it on the shelf

and let it cool.

i'll set out a plate, a fork

and knife.

a tall glass of milk.

come soon.

discussing new wedding vows

of course

i will.

yes. i promise. no worries.

you can

count on me.

i'll always be there.

i'll show up.  i'll be on time.

no need to fret.

just

shake off that nagging doubt.

you can count on me.

i'll take my feet off the coffee

table,

pick up my clothes,

shut the lid

to the toilet.

i'll take the trash out,

walk the dog.

i'll take the tracker off your

car,

off your phone

and won't ask where you've been

and with whom.

i won't complain about always

being alone.

i've got this.

i'm true blue,

i'm everything you

ever wanted

or needed. i'm a puppy dog,

on my hind feet

begging for a bone.

you'll see.

i've got your back,

i'll lift you up.

tell you that you don't look

fat

no matter how big your shadow

gets.

i'm here for you,

in sickness and in health.

whether mental

or physical.

i'll understand you

and validate you're feelings.

daily if need be.

i won't ignore your family anymore

or you

when you tell me a long

boring story about your cat.

just wait and see,

forever and ever

just you and me.

umm, can you hold on.

i have another

call coming in.

the Barista Barricade on Main Street

the road is blocked

by a mob

of Starbuck baristas who are on strike

until

they get higher

wages and

free room and board,

a scholarship

to the college of their choice,

a new car, a free facial

massage,

free tattoos and piercings,

and memberships

to a local spa.

they are lying down

like stale scones

or soured lemon bars,

in the middle of the road,

all in a row, keeping the traffic

from moving on.

sometimes they break

out into a chant

which reminds me of the old

civil rights marches,

or the protests to end

the Vietnam war.

but i don't see Bob Dylan,

or Joan Baez anywhere.

Martin Luther King, absent,

Pete Seeger,

unaccounted for.

i guess they don't realize

that people can

actually make their own

coffee at home.

just grind and pour.

which holiday party invite to accept?

i take

a walk down to the mailbox

to gather

up

all of my holiday party invitations.

but once

again,

the box is empty except

for a coupon

on butterball turkeys

at the local Kroger's.

but not to worry, there's still

time.

i have my red sweater

laid out on the bed in the guest room

with a pair

of brown corduroy pants.

i've practiced a few stories

and jokes

to tell when mingling

in the crowd of party goers.

i stand at the mirror

and mumble

some small talk

while sipping on a tumbler

of egg nogg spiked

with Jack Daniels,

i'm preparing my body for what's

to come next.

saying things like,

Merry Christmas,

Happy New Year, it's a pleasure

to meet you.

how about this weather we're having?

i'm ready.

dammit.

any day now, 

the invites will arrive.

they dial up a new accent as needed

i enjoy

how our politicians can change

their way

of talking

just like that,

depending on what part of

the country they're in.

they can so easily

change their accent

to whatever

dialect they need.

listen as they

do the deep south

with a buttermilk flavor,

or new

Orleans with a hint of spicy

gumbo rolling

off their tongues.

Arkansas, giddy up,

or inner city.

how about some ribs and greens.

south of the border,

no problem.

my enchilada friends,

they can even do wall street

or Ivy League,

mayo on white bread,

American cheese.

in a moments notice

they lean into

Somalian,

when they visit

Minnesota, or deliver a tinge

of Arabic when

they go to Dearborn Michigan,

biting on a kabob,

as the prayer

chants begin.

ohhh, so you're not that Lizzie Borden

it's guilt

by association

with congress.

and the dim witted bulbs that rule

our country.

God forbid you too

have the name

Jeffrey Epstein.

you are tainted by the creep

despite no

connection.

take for instance

my friend Charlie Manson

who often

asks me out

for a drink or to dinner,

to catch up

on sports and life. but it's

not that

Charlie Manson, it's a different

person of no

relation

to the maniacal killer.

i've been trying to talk him

into changing his name

for years.

but no dice.

so why go out?

some

days you go nowhere.

you don't

leave the house.

there's no reason to leave

the confines

of your home.

and why should you?

you have

food.

a pot of fresh brewed

coffee.

you have books to read,

a tv

to watch.

it's warm and comfy

near the fire,

besides,

it's cold out and you are

beginning

to dislike people

more and more,

especially people you don't

know.

so why go out?

how's the weather?

the man

on the phone wanting

all of my

personal information to sign me up

for an

advantage plan

through Medicare,

puts me on hold

before

the real agent

comes on the lline.

it's a busy

day at the Pakistani call center.

he asks me how the weather is.

i tell him

to hold on, let me go

look out the window.

i look out.

then return to the phone.

i tell him

it looks cold.

windy too.

i inform him that it may rain

soon.

what? he says, then

hangs up

without even saying

thank you.

without you i'm lost

i'm

asleep

at the wheel of life,

broken hearted

and alone.

i wait

for the bus to stop.

i wait

for someone

to pull

the wire above

the doors

and windows,

for the wheels of the train

to halt.

i need someone to

tell me what to do with

my life.

i need a conductor,

a driver,

a map.

without you i'm lost.

things to do with your free time

you should do something

with

your free time, my friend Betty tells me,

as she puts

out a cigarette

under her flip flop

and lights another

one with a long wooden match.

we're sitting out back in her

plastic chairs

near her trash cans

and whirring

air conditioner unit.

what do you mean, i ask her.

pushing the smoke away

from my face.

do some volunteer work,

she says.

pick up trash along the highway,

or go down to the shelter and ladle

soup or something.

or maybe see if the hospital

needs help with

sick people.

huh?

doing what with sick people?

i don't know,

read to them, or something.

rub their feet.

tell them stories about all the internet

dates you've been

on.

you have some great funny stories

about all the wacky

women you used to meet

and buy dinner and drinks for.

you could be like

a modern day

Mark Twain, or something.

she blows a few smoke rings in

my direction.

i shake my head.

you know those cigarettes are going

to eventually kill you?

you know that, right?

yeah,

probably, she says.

more than likely.

get you another beer?

meeting the neighbors for the first time

i see

the neighbor

with a broom, she's sweeping

away

leaves,

before

the open house begins.

there's a for

sale

sign in her yard.

the freshly painted door

will be open soon.

they've

lived next door for ten years.

i don't know

their names,

they don't know mine.

sometimes i might

here a dog

bark or a baby cry.

she says hello as she sweeps

the leaves

away from her porch,

preparing

for visitors to arrive.

it's getting cold

out, she says.

yup, i say back.

i guess winter has arrived.

his secret ingredient

when

my father cooked, he always

had to pour

a bottle

of beer

into whatever it was he was

cooking up

for dinner.

he loved to cook.

stews,

soups,

ribs on the grill.

a roaster chicken.

with a twinkle in his eye,

he'd pop

the cap off a Miller High Life,

take a swig and tell us

not tell

our mother, then pour

the rest

into the pot,

or pan.

smothering the bird

or beast

with beer.

can i interest you in a few cords of wood, ma'am?

some

good ole boys from Culpepper

pull

up in their old

chevy beat up

pick up

truck with cords of wood

stacked high.

they go

knocking on

doors,

trying to sell the wood

they drove

so far for.

but no one has a fireplace

that lives

here.

and yet, it doesn't stop

them

from continuing

to run from door

to door,

while pulling on their beards,

ringing bells and

knocking

on more doors.

they need new management,

it seems.

the new telescope

i invest

in a nice telescope

that i find

on Amazon, trying

to expand my

interests, my intellectual

horizons, so to speak.

i want to

check out the stars,

the planets,

the moon,

Jupiter and Mars.

i want to see what's out there

in this vast

universe,

what's happening

in the skies

when

the lights are out.

but then i notice in the high

rise building

across the street,

this woman doing yoga

in her apartment.

she does an amazing

routine,

sometimes standing on her

head for minutes

at a time,

wearing

what looks like something

from Lu Lu Lemon,

sometimes lavender,

sometimes in pink.

very celestial,

heavenly

in a manner of speaking.

oops, we've done messed up again

oops,

the dems say. maybe we shouldn't

have pulled

back

the curtain

so far

on this scandalous man.

it seems

many on our side

have been

in bed with him

for decades,

flying

on his plane,

taking his money,

accepting

millions of

contribution for re-election

campaigns,

calling

and texting, having dinner

with the convicted

pedophile

in his house and on

his Lolita Island.

oops.

our bad.

let's not talk about it

anymore.

it's all ancient

history,

let's move forward, okay?

soy soldiers in Portland and Chicago and Charlotte and....to a city coming soon near you

the protestors,

clueless

in their

costumes of black clothing,

helmets

and masks.

leather boots,

chanting their

nursery rhyme

socialist chants

through

megaphones

and cupped

hands.

they look like soy soldiers

or army

ants,

still jobless

and living with their parents

in a moldy

basement.

full of vim and vigor,

but

so easily swept aside

by a single

grown

man.

the trips are getting shorter

i've

never enjoyed traveling

too far.

but i'm worse now.

it's the luggage

that bothers

me,

the cramped seats,

the flashing

seat belt sign

when turbulence

arrives.

i can

barely make

the three-hour drive

to the eastern

shore, to 

Ocean City, to the boardwalk

and Thrashers

French Fries.

the plane

trip to France, or England

is hard.

Australia

is out of the question.

i could never

be an astronaut

on my way

to the moon

or mars. just

strap me in, send me up

then down.

that would be

enough, unless there's

an open

bar.

death or ice-cream

the boat,

a rowboat made of wooden

planks

borrowed

from

the sandy beach

next door,

all five of us got in.

our feet

wet in the leaking

water.

no life

jackets,

no idea how to swim,

as he rowed

us across the bay

for ice cream.

there's a picture on my

dresser

of that day.

the day we could have all

drowned.

his blue eyes

in the sunlight,

the curls of his blonde

hair,

his wide

mischievous grin

while 

his muscled arms

rowed us to another

shore.

the mute button

the newsman

asks

the victim, so why don't you

tell

us who was there?

give us

the list.

not everyone was

young and dumb.

you were 25 years old when

it happened.

and you went there

thirty-two times.

why can't you just tell us

who

was on the plane,

who was getting massaged,

who

was just like him,

sick?

it's been ten years now.

he's dead.

so why don't you tell us who?

why keep

it a secret, keep it all in your head?

these people need to go

to prison,

now.

she shrugs

and sighs,

umm. i don't know.

good question.

next.

can i get just one, just one, i'm sorry?

you hate

to think this way, but over time,

after following

the news, watching all the channels

listening

to each side,

you begin to believe that all

of them

are despicable people,

liars

and losers,

committing crimes.

no shame.

no admission of guilt,

or remorse

for what they do.

just actors on a stage reciting

the same old lines.

why do you really love me?

feeling

blue, i take a walk up to the lake

with a bag

of bread.

i lean over the rail

and throw out large pieces

to the ducks

and geese

floating by.

i'm generous

with the bread.

in short time the bag is empty.

so they fly

away.

all but one.

she follows me home.

waddling

behind me.

she senses my despair

and doesn't want me to be alone.

a sentimental

tear comes to my eye,

but maybe, i think,

she believes that

i have more bread

at home.

the left shoe dancing

sometimes

my left

foot feels the beat

and wants

to dance,

it clicks and bends,

taps

to the sound

of the music,

while the other one doesn't

move an inch.

it just stays still

at the bottom

of my pants. quiet

in my shoe.

they are so

different despite

being

being born of the same

parent.

siblings are like that too.

dating women with long hair

i leave

a note on the bathroom mirror.

please

block the hole

to the drain

before you brush your hair

and don't

flush any personal

products

down the toilet.

i leave

the plunger out

and the clog cleaner,

but they do it anyway.

the next day

i see the pool of water

in the sink,

there's water

on the floor

and strands

of hair,

both straight and curly,

blonde, brunette, red

and grey are everywhere.

tomorrow

i'm removing the mirror.

a pink holiday sweater for men

there's

a pink sweater on sale.

it's in the news.

one hundred and sixty-two dollars.

it's for men.

it has a nice

flower

like arrangement around

the collar.

it's a very pretty sweater

made with a blend

of polyester and cotton

fiber.

a handsome manly

man

is posing

with it on, though

there's a hint of mint in his eyes.

the pink is the color

of Pepto

Bismol,

or double bubble gum

chewed.

i tell her

politely,

please don't buy me one.

finding the good ear

i forget which ear

is the bad

ear sometimes and lean

in to hear

a conversation across the table,

trying to read lips,

straining to

catch a word

or two

to figure out what's being

said.

i become adept at nodding

in agreement.

i smile

and shake

my head

according to the facial

expressions

i observe.

i make sounds like hmm,

or mutter yes.

but i'm never sure if it's my

right ear

or my left ear

that allows sound in,

sign language may be next.

finding a good pair of shoes to walk in

there are stages

in your

life

that you are motivated

by

ambition,

or money,

sex,

something new. you get

up and

have that youthful spring

in your step

as you go

out to conquer

the unknown world

around you.

sometimes you get what

you're looking

for,

sometimes you

don't and just settle for

the lowest

of low hanging fruit.

but it's fine.

life becomes calmer

if you let it.

and then

an older age settles in

and you

think about, good food,

good conversation,

real love,

not hit and run,

long winter naps,

books, and

easy to walk in shoes.

the Diaper pick up man

before

there were disposable

diapers

there was

a truck that used to come

around

and pick up

the dirty ones,

then return them clean

at the end

of the week.

i remember my mother

setting out

a dozen

or so

on the front porch

in a bag.

fifteen pounds

of diapers.

the man would arrive

in a nice

uniform,

with a name tag.

he'd tip his hat

and move

on to the next house as

we looked

out the window.

promising each other to

kill ourselves

if we ever

had to do that.

shaving the number two pencil

i haven't

sharpened a pencil in years,

although i have handful

in the drawer

still in the box

waiting.

unsharpened.

waiting.

maybe it's been 40 years

since i last took the flat

head

of a number

two

yellow pencil, the color

of a school bus

and stuck it

into the sharpener,

selecting

the right hole.

was there a number one, or three,

or four

pencil? we didn't care

or ask.

we turned

the handle around and around,

then took

it out for

observation,

letting the shavings fall

into the trash below

where it

hung on a cabinet.

we seemed to be

always sharpening

pencils,

the others used down 

to a nub,

two inches long, not counting

the bald head of

the red eraser.

96 tears

i'm

sick of the Epstein

files.

tired of the constant

attention

to it

by the salacious news.

he's dead.

gone.

turn everything

over,

let it all out, who cares

anymore.

line up the women

and let

them tell all, tell every

name

of every

someone

or no one who was involved.

give them

their day

in court, their money

if that's what

they want.

give them all the help

they need to

get over this

so that we can get over

it too.

momma mia.

dreaming about an oversized baby

i dream

about a baby on my lap,

three

days

old, laughing, and talking,

with long

hair.

she's a bundle

of joy.

there's only happiness

in her new eyes.

i don't know what this dream

means,

so i ask 

ChatGPT.

she tells me that it's a positive

thing,

indicating

a feeling of love

and hope,

new beginnings.

or maybe you were drinking

too much last night.

can you hear me?

i get

a few calls a day,

eighty or so yesterday,

by someone

in India

or Pakistan, or Jamaica

wanting to

buy my house,

or award

me with two point five

million dollars

and

a C class Mercedes Benz.

it sounds

like the same call center

that i

get my Medicare

information

from,

as well as my funeral

expense 

whole life

insurance,

and Medical Alert Bracelet.

as well

as car insurance,

and legal assistance for

what Round Up has

done to my nervous system.

thankfully i'm known

on the dark

web

data base

as Emily Wilson

on Oak Street.

who is alive and well,

though

only in my scratchy voice

and head.

preparations for winter

my preparation

for winter

involves

turning

off the water to the outside

spigot

and

putting on a sweater

after finding

a pair

of leather gloves

on the top

shelf of the coat closet.

i'm ready,

again.

you need to get out of the house more

my therapist

tells me

i should join something.

a club,

a book club,

a coffee

clutch,

a meet up group to hike

with,

a film

club,

a club that likes to travel.

join

meet up,

she says, get out of the house,

make some new

friends.

you're not

over the hill,

you're on top of the hill.

i show

her a bump on my arm

and ask her

what she thinks

that is.

pleasing the dog

i kick

my boot off, coming

in out

of the snow

and ice,

which sends

the steel toe

flying across the room,

through

a window.

the wind

and cold

come in, blowing

everything

at once.

this seems to please

the dog

who runs to the hole

to bark out.

you're not part of it

this

ragged line of grey

trees,

bared,

this beaten path

around

the black pool

full

of old rain

the bleached bones

along

the way,

so much has fallen,

so much goes on without

you being

a part of it.

both death

and birth

occurring 

while you stay busy

with your dreams.

avoiding the black cat

i'm

not superstitious by nature,

but i do

avoid

the black cat,

or

the ladder, walking around it,

i'm careful

around mirrors too, not

to mention

stepping over

a crack.

i love my mother

and would

never do her harm,

i'd never throw a hat onto

a bed either,

but

yes, occasionally i'll

knock on

wood,

or rub a rabbit's tail,

toss a coin

into a wishing well,

or cast a wish

upon a star,

but i wouldn't say i'm

superstitious.

not at all.

time for new recruits

i wake

up with the feeling that i should

apologize

to someone

about something.

something done,

or said.

i can feel it in the air,

that

someone is upset with me.

someone has dismissed me

as a friend.

i go to the list

on Facebook. oh my.

several

are missing.

i need to recruit some

new ones

i guess.

Island Hopping

did any

of the parents ever ask, 

so where are you

going

this weekend

with that three day 

luggage,

wearing your yoga

pants

with your hair all done

and your lipstick on?

you're taking

a trip to an island

with a middle-aged man

and 

some lawyers, a Prince,

some congressmen

and an ex-president?

when will you be home?

and we were

wondering how

you can afford that new car

and mink stole.

is there something you aren't

telling us?

are all of your friends

also going along?

don't forget to bring your

homework

with you,

you have an economics

test on Monday.

so where is this island

anyway?

can we reach you by phone?

the laminated photo

i lose

my wallet on the train.

it has

no money in it.

just a Kohl's card,

two ticket stubs

to Star Wars,

a library

card

and a laminated picture

of my

dog

being held by an old

girlfriend

in a negligee.

her number

is on the back.

when i get home,

she calls

to yell at me, and tells

me

to stop giving my

number

out. her phone is ringing

off the hook.

May December relationships

she's a morning person,

while

i get going

around noon,

or one.

she's already walked,

and swam

done Pilates

and played a round of golf

before i even

get my loafers

and compression socks on.

that's the trouble with 

May

December relationships,

despite

the obvious fun.

her long door mirror

as i stand

staring at my body in the long

mirror

she left

me,

attached to the door

with four

short screws,

i give my waist a pinch.

not good.

i make a vow,

no cake

for a week.

i'm always making promises

i can't keep.

in time the moon appears

so much

of life is waiting for you.

waiting

for

you to pick out the dress you

might wear,

which

shoes

to step into,

which lipstick to apply

as you

brush your hair.

i sit in the big chair

down below

and listen

to your footsteps

as you walk

from room to

room.

opening drawers,

closing

doors.

i find a window

to look out and stare

while

jingling my keys.

in time

the moon appears.

the angry mail person

i see the mail person

lugging

her enormous leather mail bag

up the sidewalk.

she's sweating

under her

government issued

pith helmet

and uniform of a blue shirt

and grey shorts,

both soaked

with perspiration.

she seems more

angry

than ever,

as mail drops behind her,

littering

the ground, which

she doesn't stop to pick up.

i open the door as she 

approaches

and give her a howdy,

nice day,

isn't it?

she sticks her hand

out

with my bills.

a half dozen or so

with store 

circulars, coupons

and what not.

after a grunt,

she gives me the side eye,

and tells me with a loud

voice,

you know there's this thing

called online banking now.

you know that, right?

his first transaction using change

not

used to being

paid

in cash,

the young clerk stares

long

at the twenty dollar

bill,

turning it over

and over,

then opens the register

with a ding.

where to begin?

he wonders,

looking at the drawer

of pennies

and nickels,

quarters. he's confused,

having never

made

a transaction

needing change. but

i see the trouble he's in,

his head

in a tizzy,

and feel the need to save him.

i take the bill back

and hand him

a card named Visa.

art therapy

so much

of art

is relieving pain.

aspirin

for the soul, an ointment

for what

lies

within.

we try to smooth

out

the ruffles

of wrongs.

we try to start over

and over

again,

with a splash of paint

with the angry

brush,

browns

and reds,

the abstract slashes

of black,

going around and around,

searching

for a soft landing,

a finished canvas,

some

restful end.

lying in the beds we've made

it's a blue

house, dark, almost plum

in color

set in the woods

down

the curve

of a driveway.

the gloom of old trees,

old wood,

stones,

rotted

things from when the children

were young.

the memories

sore

sore with betrayal.

the swing

rusted on a chain.

the garden

now

weeds.

so much of what remains here speaks

of better

times, better days.

you can retreat

and go

home again, but it's not

the same.

not the same.

the beds we've made, we

now lie in.

clever boy

i can't help

but laugh when i think about my

best friend

from the 4th grade

into college.

how he never did his homework,

copying

off my quizzes

and tests.

cheating

with the inked answers

on his arms.

rarely taking a book home,

perpetually absent

from class. flirtatious

with

a charming

smile, loved

by everyone.

he's a doctor now,

while i'm on a rooftop

painting

shutters and windows.

clever boy.

clever boy.

there is no cure

would

public hanging help,

or maybe

the guillotine

in Times Square.

the electric chair

set up

on the fifty-yard line

at the Super Bowl,

or

the firing squad

against the remnants

of the Berlin Wall,

would killing very

very bad

people make

it all stop

and go away?

make the world behave?

nah.

you can't cure crazy.

sadly,

it's here to stay.

the meaning of life

feeling whimsical

and curious

i ask ChatGTP

what the meaning of life is.

she takes

her time

then finally says something like

how about

this weather we're having

in your area?

i smile.

good answer, i write back,

it's fine.

green in passing

i take a

green glass from her house.

a wine glass.

Lynnie's.

she won't miss

it.

and when

i visit my

father's empty apartment

after

death calls,

i take a green

ashtray

home with me.

i wash out

the ashes and

set it on the kitchen

sill

along with the green

glass

dish

which once held my

mother's rings.

wiping the slates clean

it comes

to you early in the morning

after

a solid

sleep.

it occurs to you how little

you care

about

the things that used

to bother you and keep

you up at night.

words

said,

people

and their slights.

bothersome

sorts

you never

really liked.

it puts a smile on your face

with all

the worry

and concern

almost completely gone.

how easy

life is

when at last you get it

right.

eggs over easy hashbrowns and bacon

do you

have to tip even if the food

was bad,

the service

horrible, and the roof was

leaking

rusty water?

yes, you ate the bacon

and eggs,

the hashbrowns.

you

drank the coffee and

had

extra toast, but what about

the tip? nothing?

ten percent,

fifteen percent?

your Catholic guilt defines

you though.

so you leave

twenty

like always.

can't we argue later, dear?

can't we

argue later, i ask her,

while

brushing my teeth,

staring into the mirror,

wondering

where that new line came from

on my forehead.

no,

she says, standing in the door

way

in her pink terry cloth

robe,

the belt tightened

around her waist.

no, she says again,

flipping the light switch on

and off

to get my attention.

i want to fight now, not later.

if we wait

until later

i won't even remember

what i'm mad

about.

so let's go at it now.

i think we're out of floss,

i tell her.

do you have any in your

purse?

Red Cup Day

oh no,

she tells me,

waking up in a panic, staring

at important

updates on her phone.

today is

red cup day at Starbucks and all

the baristas

are going on

strike.

get up, get up, come on,

we have to go down

there now

to support them.

she throws the pillow off my head

and shakes me

with two hands.

red cup day?

yes, it's the most important day of the year

for Starbucks.

when you order your

seven dollar

cup of coffee they give it to you

in a red cup.

and believe it or not,

it's reusable.

yikes.

oh no, this is bad. let me hop

in the shower

and get dressed.

did you say the baristas are going on

strike too?

yes. they are underpaid

and treated horribly

by the corporate oligarchy.

some of these baristas have college

degrees

from Columbia and Harvard

and are only making

twenty dollars an hour

with health benefits, maternity

leave, 

free coffee and merch

as long as they work there.

and six mental health sessions

each year

at no cost.

it's a hard demanding job.

they are like scientists working

in a lab behind

that counter.

do you know the training they have

to go through

to make a triple shot, soy, no foam,

vanilla latte dusted

with nutmeg?

they force them all to wear

those ugly green aprons too.

wow. 

that's terrible, just terrible.

dang, and now they're going on strike

on red cup day?

the horror, the horror.

funny how red is the commie color,

isn't it?

oh stop.

get up, come on

and quit goofing around we have

to get down

there now.

the new mayor is going to make a speech

about the strike,

he's behind it all the way.

okay, okay, i'm up. i'm up.

which one should we go to, the one

on 5th Avenue,

or the one at Columbus Circle,

or the one on the corner

of Broadway

and tenth, or maybe the one next

to Target,

or the one

inside of Target?

or should we take the free bus and

go across town

to the ones

near the Brooklyn Bridge?

finding fun couple things to do

she suggests

that we

do something different this weekend.

perhaps

take a flight in a hot air

balloon over

Orange County,

or jump out of a plane from

ten thousand

feet.

we should have some fun

with our life,

wrestle sharks,

box kangaroos.

put our heads into the mouths

of alligators

and crocodiles.

maybe

go pick berries in Winchester,

or ride

a horse in Middleburg.

there's the polar bear plunge

coming up

soon, at Sandy Point in Maryland,

come on, we should

go,

put on our suits and join in.

i lower my book,

stretched out

in the warm bed, with a strong

cup of coffee in hand

and ask,

and just who exactly are you?

thanks giving

there was

shame,

but gratitude in the church

basket

of food

left on our porch in the freezing

cold,

we worried

if neighbors saw it,

kids

heading off to school.

did they know

how poor we were,

the holes

in our shoes stuffed

with cardboard,

did anyone have a clue

that the social worker

was coming

to see

which kids would be removed

and taken

to a better

place to live.

a place with beds

not shared,

a place with food

and first worn clothes?

did we panic when the lights

went off,

when the heat died

for lack of payment,

did the church laugh at our

coin filled

envelopes,

perhaps.

and yet somehow, we overcame

it all

and grew.

tight wire walkers

we were skilled

children,

athletic, bone thin,

tight wire

walkers along

the sills

of rooms, kitchen counters,

skilled

with butter knives

cleaning the remnants

of jelly and peanut

butter jars,

we knew

were the cookies were

hidden,

the candy,

drinking from the gallon

jug the last

spills of milk

or juice.

we knew not to bite

into the brown

soft spot of an apple.

we knew how to survive,

eyeing the plate

of seven pork

chops on a plate, waiting

for grace to end,

to snatch the largest piece.

if we can only get to the bottom of that

so what's the most important

thing

on your mind

the poll asks

the college students

and other

bright minds. though

dimly lit.

is it jobs,

inflation, the rising cost

of everything.

is it wars,

climate change, the rising

ocean,

death from drugs,

the homeless,

or maybe it's

immigration, or crime

run amok,

or maybe the lack of

housing and lower

health care costs?

no they say, none of that.

it's the Epstein

files, if only we can get to

the bottom

of that.

go to Florida instead

some cities,

such as the windy city,

like their crime, their robberies

and murders,

their assaults,

vandalism

and 

carjacking stats.

we've got this, they say.

stay away.

we don't need the help

of the government to make

things safe.

we'd like our city

to stay as it's always been,

an urban jungle,

with gun carrying

criminals.

fear is fun.

it gets your heart

going.

we know which streets

to walk on,

which blocks

not to tread.

if you don't like it,

don't come, go to Florida

instead.

someone to blame it on

there's some

sort of goo stuck between

the return

bar

and back space button

which is driving

me crazy.

a short drive, no doubt.

but with each

tap

of the affected keys,

i have to strike

it again

and again until it works

giving me

the proper word.

i wish there

was someone here to blame

it on,

a dog or cat,

spilled milk.

but it's me again. i'm to blame

for nearly everything

these days.

how the story ends

you can't

help yourself, typing in the name,

peering over the fence

in a safe

and secure cyber way.

you just want

to know

what you don't know, for no

reason other than

your insatiable urge

to turn

the next page.

you want to see how their

story turns

out before

you shelve that book

and put it away.

you want to know when

their ship

sinks,

when the wheels come off,

you want to know

how that disaster

ends,

like in the Perils of Pauline,

not hoping, but imagining

that it ends

in flames.

cooking together

unseasoned

and bland,

saltless,

no pepper, no spices

of any kind,

make

the meal dull, boring,

forgettable.

before the night

is over

already, it's left your

mind.

let's cook

together

and make it last

next time.

The Epstein Island Witch Trials

it's not unlike

the UFO files, the JFK files,

the Bermuda

Triangle Files,

the Salem Witch Trials,

all of the files that have

been opened

and closed

over and over again, and what

do you get?

nothing.

nothing but hearsay,

vague e-mails and texts,

a list of names

of who's who.

gossip and chit chat.

a gobbledygook of lies and truth.

roll out

the flight logs

of politicians, lawyers,

celebrities

on both sides of the aisle.

loddie dottie and everybody

is on the list.

can we get a witness?

Presidents, ex-presidents,

congressmen

senators,

money bags

and old hags.

CEO's and regular

joes.

high school girls with

ponytails

and pig tails in cheerleading

outfits.

Princes are in pictures,

royalty,

losers and winners.

anyone who ever was five feet

away from

the pedophile creep

is on the list.

just line them all up and get it

over with.

put them before

congress,

hand on the Bible. 

use a lie detector and go

at them

until they break,

or don't break.

water board them,

put them on the stretcher,

shoot them up with

sodium pentothal.

get it over with, it's ridiculous.

the dude has been dead

for six years now.

give the victims their due

and at last,

for all of us,

peace and rest.

Divorce or Exorcism, tough choice

i was amazed

at how

strong she was breaking the ropes

that were around

her boney wrists and ankles,

tying her to the bed posts while

Father Smith

threw Holy Water

on her writhing body,

trying to cast out the demons

that had taken over her soul.

she snapped those ropes like

Conan the Barbarian,

and then levitated

while she laughed in Latin,

she started singing

a song from grade school,

Mary had a Little Lamb,

in French then

tossed out her mother's split pea

soup with ham

onto the walls,

making me send an emergency

911 text

to my housekeeper, Milagro.

Father Smith looked at me

and whispered, be strong

my son, have faith, 

but my advice is to not get married

again, ever.

okay? promise?

promise, i told him,

cross my heart.

save that he said,

it's going to be a long night,

put some coffee on

and grab the big net

and chains.

i believe she keeps a pitchfork

in the hall.

i get insomnia and indigestion when with a woman

as i look

back on my so-called life,

i make a list

of 

things like insomnia

and indigestion,

anxiety

and panic attacks, fits

of jealousy

and crazy thoughts.

moments of

cursing

uncontrollably

with my blood running hot.

all in the pursuit of a woman,

or love.

or something

that resembles love.

i'm Woody Allen twitching

and kvetching,

otherwise,

in between relationships

i'm perfectly fine.

happy as a lark.

a road less traveled

big

as a thumb, brown

and

wide,

antennas sticking

out

from all sides

it catches

my eye on the white wall.

waddling as they

do with

little plan ahead of them.

what is that?

another floater

on my retina, or an insect

that's found

his way in

from the cold outside.

which magazine do i use

to kill him with,

a messy job,

or

which book to toss,

smashing him to bits,

Syvia's Collected Poetry,

or Robert Frost's?

the cold shoulder of Canada

they say,

they being the pundits,

the collectors

of numbers,

the farmers of polls that one

in three

residents of this northwest

city

are mentally ill,

struggling with a variety

of emotional issues.

Portland.

half abandoned

empty

with the poor and homeless.

divorced

from a real world.

i get it though.

the dark green, the endless

rain.

chasms of blue.

the wind off the sea.

the cold shoulder of Canada

leaning in.

who wouldn't be?

the runaway bagel

before

the first bite, the onion

bagel toasted

with a schmeer of cream

cheese

drops

out of my hand and begins to roll

down the sidewalk,

i rush to it,

but the wind keeps it rolling

along,

it hops a curb,

then into the street it goes.

i give chase,

but i'm far behind.

it's heading for

the Lincoln Tunnel

into Jersey.

i feel like there's something

that it knows.

that maybe it's time.

four skips across the pond

it's been

awhile since going down this path.

it's where

i go when

things are bleak.

dark,

with no light at the end

of my

personal

tunnel.

it's been ages, a decade

almost

since

i walked through the briars

the weeds,

picking up stones

that caught my eye,

then

skimming them across

the green

pool, cupped in the woods.

four skips

are golden

now.

life is easier when you

can smile.

money for nothing, chicks for free

the senators

and congressmen are so pleased

with themselves.

patting

each other on the back

after the bill

is signed.

they shake hands

and smile,

giving each other the thumbs up.

we've done it again,

we've saved

the world,

they say,

sitting back

in their leather chairs

drinking a celebratory

scotch, opening

a new bottle of wine.

what a job we have. nothing

like it in the world.

money for

nothing, chicks for free.

counting calories

we didn't

count our calories back then,

we were just

kids,

so what the hell.

we ate

whatever it was we wanted

and then

ran it off

in the street.

we didn't count our steps,

do crunches

and squats,

time ourselves when we ran

around the block.

we grabbed

a bat and ball and came

home for

dinner

when it got dark.

we ate spaghetti and meatballs

then went

to bed.

so what are you thankful for this year?

i make

the unfortunate mistake of accepting

a Thanksgiving

invite

for dinner

in the neighborhood.

dinner is nice, despite

the turkey being made of Tofu

and the kale

organic, very

hard to chew.

everyone

is pleasant

and well dressed, the men

in crocheted vests

and the women in

peasant dresses.

all

leaning left with

their blue hair and nose rings,

their bumper

stickers,

saying coexist.

they are a

courteous and polite bunch

of souls,

your hug

the tree types, many still wearing

their covid

masks from five years

ago,

and then

a woman,

someone's wife/husband suggests that

we go around the room

and tell everyone

what we're grateful for.

so around we go.

someone says for their work

down at the shelter,

friendships

are mentioned,

homeless men and women

on the corners

that they know.

pets and vacations to Moscow

and Mexico,

compost piles and plastic

and tin

bins for Wednesday pick up

are brought up.

someone is pleased with

their new hybrid car

that gets sixty-seven miles per gallon.

another is thankful

for funds being infused into

their cause by

billionaire George Soros.

three women stand up together

and shake their bottles

of Prozac,

and Xanax,

to which they are very grateful

for.

then it's my turn.

i gulp, then burst out,

as i grab my coat, that i'm

thankful

that we have three more years

to go with

the current President. the best one we've

ever had

since Abe Lincoln.

i grab a pumpkin pie

from the table as i run out

dodging

slurs and buttermilk biscuits.

hoagies in the hands of the work crew

the neighborhood

is full

of trucks

and back hoes,

diggers of all sorts,

jack hammers, throngs

of green

vested men

with white helmets,

shovels

in hand,

signs

saying slow

or stop,

road narrows.

Washington Gas.

for three weeks now

they've been at it.

they wave

politely

as you drive by.

throwing metal plates

over the ditches

so that you don't fall in.

they seem

happy to be working, even

in the cold,

this November wind.

i wait for noon to leave

my house,

their lunch hour,

the road cleared while

to their sandwiches

they go.

waking up in strange beds

i was

slow in coming to the realization

that

alcohol

consumption, though never

heavy

or out of control

was

a dumb 

thing to do.

the occasional beer

or two

or three, when out with

friends,

or glass of Pinot,

the Martinis

at a bar,

the toothpick and olive

leaning

so.

so much social drinking,

never at home.

what good was it?

did it make me wiser

more

congenial, was there any

nutritional value

involved. i don't know.

it just seemed to ease you

into making

phone calls you didn't want

to make,

doing things you

didn't want to do.

waking up in strange beds

with a headache,

feeling blue.

take as many as you can carry, boys

the pear tree

is still there behind the bricked

walls,

on the corner

of Prince

and North Patrick.

how many summers ago

was it

that John and i painted that house.

our ladders

angled

against

the clapboards?

how many pears did we eat,

devouring

the pale

green fruit

hanging within reach

in the fall sun,

our pockets full.

our bellies

gone hard.

the owner encouraged

us to take

as many as we could carry

when we finished

the job.

so we did.

hardly a day goes by when

near there that i

don't think of him.

a punched hole in the wall

it's three a.m. as i lie

here

scrolling through my phone

looking

at dry wall

repair videos.

is there a new way to patch

a hole,

a gizmo

i can buy and save time with?

something

to lower

the cost,

make life easier

for the wall that was punched

with minimal

sanding.

oops, our bad

okay, it's time.

let's open up the government again.

it looks like

we are not going to get what

we've held

our breath for,

turning our angry

faces an even deeper shade

of blue.

we haven't missed

a single paycheck, but our constituents

have.

they're stuck

at the airport, how much

longer can we go on

before they realize that we've

pulled the wool

over their eyes, blaming it all

on the Orange man,

who has nothing to do with it.

it's all about Congress

and the vote.

42 million of our democratic

voters

are out of

food stamps.

children are starving,

stores are being looted, it's only

a matter of time

before they burn

it all down again

like the summer of love

back in 20.

we just need 8 common sense

voters (traitors)

to do it for us.

so let's vote

like we always do with a clean

bill of resolution,

and blame it all on them.

let's accept

the same extension we signed time

and time again,

with Obama, Bush, Trump

and Biden.

the same exact one.

let's get the government going again.

and negotiate later,

like always.

our bad. ooops.

so sorry to have wrecked your lives

for the past five weeks and counting.

no worries,

you'll get your butterball turkeys

soon.

slaves to the candy

you have

to hand it to the drug cartels.

their ingenuity

and relentless

pursuit of money

is amazing.

decades of hard work,

with foot to the pedal,

nose to the wheel.

how well organized they are.

willing to

hide a bag

of drugs

into any orifice

of their day laborers to

carry it across

that invisible line

of a border.

nothing stops them.

they possess

boats and submarines

a fleet of planes.

soldiers and weapons

beyond what

most countries have.

trucks

and cars. dope

stuffed into the fabric

of coffins

from afar.

they leave a trail of dead bodies

across the world.

a new tombstone goes up

every ten minutes

with the dead,

the youthful veins filled

with the golden

poison. insatiable

slaves to the candy.

their learned chemists get the most

out of one

tiny pill,

one enormous plantation field.

we know were they are,

hiding in plain sight,

we can circle the dots on a map.

the politicians

in their countries

know where they are,

but the money is too good

to stop them.

everyone has a hand out for

dash.

why slip further into poverty

when we have this well oiled

machine

and there's more

veins to be fed.

the Christmas card list

i go through

the box holding years of

Christmas

cards

received.

some with snow falling,

decorated trees,

elves

and Santa Claus.

reindeers on rooftops,

sleighs

in the sky.

nice thick cards with handwritten

notes enclosed.

some where the glitter

trickles off.

love,

with affection, miss you,

happy holidays,

from

so and so.

friends and lovers, 

family, once close,

now

almost unknown.

i used to have a list

of them all, names and

addresses.

where is that list?

the unexpected visitor

it's unexpected.

most

illnesses are. we don't hear

them

coming up

the steps,

they don't call, they don't

knock at the door.

there's no

notice in the mail.

it's a visit

you're never prepared for.

but here they

are, with their heavy luggage,

anticipating

a long stay, moving into

your life

for weeks, or months,

maybe more.

old school

it's paperwork

with bills

to pay.

envelopes and stamps, a good ink pen

to write with.

the clear desk

to stretch out with,

sunlight is nice.

a ticking clock

in the corner.

no laptop.

a check book for personal

use,

the business one too.

the ledger,

the calculator.

the return address stickers.

old school.

carry out General Tao

you know

it's bad for you, you know

that you'll regret

it later,

that it will only

temporarily fill you up.

but you're starving.

it's been a long day

and there's nothing in the fridge

at home but

bologna and grape

jelly.

you may

even get a headache

and a stuffy

nose from the MSG,

your lungs

may seize,

the grease will give you

indigestion,

the oils,

all that fried meat and rice,

noodles drenched

in an unfamiliar spice.

but what the hell,

you call the order in

and pick it up,

the plastic fork in the glove

compartment will

have to suffice as you

put the hot white box

between your legs,

eat, and drive.

all these men

how

dare men be men.

look at them wrestling,

singing,

telling jokes in a bar,

flirting with women,

exercising,

flexing their

chests

and arms.

sports sports sports.

howling

in the wind

on their bikes,

driving fast

in their cars.

how dare they be who

they are.

put a dress on boys and

shave your

beards.

a little lipstick perhaps.

we've had enough of you

and you're testosterone.

go home

and leave us alone.

we don't need or want

you anymore.

alone but never lonely

alone

but never lonely.

it's a good place to be.

up on a hill

in the sun. green grass,

and a cool

breeze. so many

books

yet to read.

worry free for the most

part.

except for the damn ants,

and bees.

the mythical city

there was

a time, maybe it's a myth,

a movie

created

version of what the city once

was.

the glamour of it all.

the tall

buildings,

the jazz, the art, theaters,

the music

of traffic and throngs

of ambitious

men and women,

come to make their stand.

the romance

of central park.

the carriages,

the bridges linking the island

to the rest of the

mundane world.

impossibly busy and hard.

writers,

actors, singers

come to make their mark.

this was it.

the place you had to be.

the jewel

of capitalism, home of

the brave,

home of the free.

a tree fell in the woods

it was

my father's favorite joke.

he used

to tell it to me on the phone about

every year or so.

i'd listen and laugh

as if it was the first time

i had ever heard

him tell it.

a tree fell in the woods, but

no one

heard it because somebody's

wife kept

talking.

i just told it yesterday,

again,

and got a short

laugh.

dumb and dumber

not unlike spoiled

toddlers

in the back seat of the car,

holding their

collective

breathes until they get

their ice cream,

they finally come to their

senses and say, okay,

uncle. we give up

with not breathing.

you win. we were dumb

to hold the country hostage

like that

just to get our double scoop

of ice cream.

our bad, oops, sorry

about that.

to be continued

i live

with the watery dream

all

day.

i don't leave it

on the pillow, no.

my bones are cold

with

the dark

waters i swam

in last night. 

i can feel the pull

of each

wave.

i'm going where?

to what end?

maybe

tonight i'll find

out.

everything is to be

continued

these days.

the beauty has turned on me

i've

been here too long.

too many

years

have passed in this same

house

at the ocean.

the sand

is in everything.

all

is salt

and wind, brine from

the relentless sea.

my skin has hardened,

weathered.

what once

was beauty

has now turned on me.

my eyes have

paled,

less blue now, less green.

i need

the inland,

the forest of trees.

the quiet,

i long for a gull

free morning.

i don't want to see a new

blue storm

rising across the curve

of the watery

earth.

it's time to flee.

i need grass under my feet.

civil disobedience

the condo board

puts out a notice telling all residents

to not

rake their leaves

and put them into the woods.

you will be fined

if caught and reported.

the leaves that have fallen

from the adjacent park,

and blown

into your yard are your responsibility

now,

they should not be raked up

and thrown back into the woods

to the trees they came from.

you must bag them

and dispose of them properly.

we have hired a special leaf

removal company who

will come by weekly to remove

our bags of leaves.

again,

do not put your leaves back into

the woods or worse yet,

put them in a barrel and burn them.

we're watching.

how can i resist?

waterfront retirement property

i call my portfolio manager

at Morgan Stanley

to see how we're doing.

will a few million in investments

be enough

to see me through

until St. Peter takes my hand.

am i going to be in a cardboard

box under the bridge

or in the woods across from

the liquor store when i retire?

she laughs.

she always laughs at my stupid

jokes, but then she clears

her throat and says,

it's going to be a very nice box.

maybe made of wood,

with a nice window cut

out on each side to let

the sun in.

there's a nice ho bo camp

across from the Walmart, near

the creek, you might like.

rare to find waterfront areas

like that.

drive by, take a look, tell me

what you think.

the roads are clear here

there hasn't been a riot,

or a protest

in Springfield in ages,

maybe never.

i think it's because people

are very busy,

working.

they have families

and houses, yards to tend

to, dogs to walk.

bills to pay.

taking their kids to little

league

and soccer practice.

who has time for sitting

out on the highway

blocking traffic,

when there's something

in the oven,

for dinner, and there's

books to read.

everyone is new here, again

i've rarely

seen the same person working

at the home

depot,

or the bank,

or the grocery store.

someone new is always

at the register.

walking around,

first week

on the job.

managers and clerks.

even my mail person

is new

each day.

people come and go.

what is it?

the pay, the boredom,

the hours?

you don't know them

and they

don't know you.

it's how it goes

these days.

the writer's group on Tuesday

so what's new?

what haven't we talked about here?

the man

with the silver pony

tail says,

pens sticking out of the pockets

of his leather vest.

we're all friends,

this is a safe place. welcome,

welcome.

let's go around

the room

and introduce ourselves,

tell everyone

why you're here

and what you hope to accomplish

by doing so.

tell us what you're working on.

who wants to start us off?

who wants

to be the first to share.

i glance around the room,

past the circle of

heads

and search for an exit sign.

my reams of poetry

and short stories for the class

are wet

in my sweaty hands.

why do i torture myself like this?

i've lost my mind.

why work when big Daddy can take care of us?

i see a large crowd gathered

around a brick building

with a flag

out front. tables are set up with

bologna sandwiches

and dixie cups full of grape juice.

everyone

seems to have

a five dollar

cup of coffee in their hand,

three kids

in tow,

and a nice SUV in the parking lot,

still running

to keep it warm.

what's the line about i ask the woman

in front of me,

what's going on here?

oh, she says.

we're complaining about the government.

having a protest rally.

that damn orange man

has cut us off.

i haven't had a pop tart or a Coca-Cola

in three days.

my kids are out of Skittles.

they go out of their minds when the sugar

runs out.

we're trying to get our

stamps

and food cards. get our EBTs 

full of money again.

none of us work.

some by no fault

of our own.

divorce, children, bad luck,

mental problems, 

fate, we all come from the free

lunch generation,

the welfare generation.

my great grandmother

was on the dole and she had dementia.

how can i go to work

with that lurking in the back of my mind?

not to mention,

i stubbed my toe the other night

on my Pomeranian dog,

you ever had a stubbed

toe?

who can work with a stubbed toe?

tell me that.

by the way, she tells me, winking

one giant eyelash,

the more kids you pop out the bigger

the check. listen,

we don't want to work, we don't

know how to work.

i've got things to do with my life

besides working.

i wouldn't have time to shop, or

have my nails done,

or my hair,

if i worked. what kind of life

would that be?

sure we have degrees.

some even beyond

your basic GED. my friend over there

has a PHD in gender

studies from Columbia.

my sister has a degree in something

about the ice bergs

melting,

she's right up there,

the big blonde-haired woman

who's waving.

we're not stupid, not at all,

how could we pull the wool over

everyone's eyes

for so many years

if we were?

but, i ask, looking around,

where are all the men?

how come

there's no men here? there's only

young and middle

aged women in line,

women of all colors,

white, black, Hispanic.

they all for the most part

look healthy

and strong, if not a little plump.

no one here looks like

they're hungry,

or starving. quite the contrary,

i must say.

so where are the men?

men? are you kidding me mister mister?

you wouldn't catch a real man

in a line like this.

oh, men work. men like to work

and eat,

they have this thing called pride

and self-esteem.

they like to pay their bills

and move up the ladder to make

even more money.

men and their ambition, pffft. who needs that?

i like to sleep in,

get up and watch the View,

maybe

watch some YouTube

for recipes, get some make up tips

from the Kardashians,

maybe do a little face

yoga.

our brains

are wired differently. we're women,

dammit.

they owe us.

but there's a lot of wealthy and successful

women out there,

who like their lives.

yeah, who cares.

they just don't know how

to play the game

like we do.

is that a pumpkin latte, by the way"

i ask. smells great.

yes, double whipped cream,

and two extra shots.

7 twenty-five

over there at Starbucks.

they're hiring by the way.

oh, no thanks,

i have a job.

so what are you here for, mister?

just curious. just stopping

by to say hey. wanted to see what

all the buzz was about.

before you go, do you have a hundred

bucks i can

borrow, she asks, whispering,

we're going to Mon Ami Gabi

after we leave here

and maybe a movie.

i'm not eating no damn bologna

sandwich

like a three-year-old.

i'll pay you back, promise, pinky

swear.

same line, same rally tomorrow,

okay?

ten reasons why i love her

i love

her for many reasons,

with ten of them

being her

long fingernails

that drag across my

back,

scratching

gently

until my leg shakes

like

a satisfied dog,

at last finding my happy

place.

i want my keys back, darling

when i booted

her out

of the house for about a

hundred reasons,

from adultery

to lying,

to gaslighting,

to witchcraft and basic

tom foolery,

all i worried

about was getting back

from her

the keys

to the house.

i was on pins and needles

for weeks

wondering what

wrath

would come upon me

for

kicking her down the road

like a rusty old

tin can.

i didn't want

to go through the process

of getting new locks

on all the doors.

finally, she gave in and threw

them

into the back yard,

all connected

by a rubber band.

but i always wondered

if she made

copies.

the board game of life

as children

we gathered around the table

and played

board games.

chess and checkers,

clue. candy land.

the game of life

being one

of our favorites.

we moved our little blue

or pink cars

around the board,

going to school,

getting jobs, getting married

having children,

life being

a bowl of cherries as you

rolled the dice

and moved forward

with your imaginary life.

there was no stop at the rehab

facility,

the AA meeting,

no surgical transitioning,

changing blue

to pink.

no lawyers involved,

no Snap benefits to worry about.

no wars to go to,

no catastrophes,

no divorces.

no rainbow or Palestinian

flags flew.

no one went hungry

or lived under

a bridge.

all of that came later after

the game

was put away on the top

shelf of the closet

never to be played again.

the goal is to keep getting elected

what a fine

fun

job it must be to be

a senator

or congressman.

to never not get paid

no matter

if the government shuts down,

to get

the upper hand

on stock trades.

to live

in the lap of luxury without

ever lifting

a finger

to help those that voted

for you.

what a great a job

to work 

in the capitol of the nation.

a house here,

a house there. a trip to somewhere

exciting

on the taxpayer's

dime.

rules and laws are for them,

not us.

to have

your picture taken,

your name

in news,

sound bites

always mentioned.

the buzz,

the bang, the constant

circus of it all.

what fun

even if nothing ever gets done.

the only goal

is to just keep getting elected

over and over

again.

making promises

that will never be kept.

a chicken in every pot

will

there be a chicken in every pot?

will

there be

free buses,

and frozen rents, will

the criminals

be hugged

not arrested, will

the illegal immigrants be

safe

and warm

in their beds

with free room and board.

will the statue of Liberty

raise open

her arms

and tell the world

come one, come all.

bring the worst of the worst.

the good, the bad,

the ugly.

no worries

anymore.

welcome aboard.

the fast forward button

there are

times when you want to fast forward

the day,

to hit the button

and quickly move

onward

past the boring parts.

the party you

anxiously don't want to go to,

the lecture,

the tour,

the meaningless chit chat,

the mundane

work,

etc.

you want to get home.

get away.

to reset the button,

and not be bothered by what

you're forced to

endure,

day after day.

the Underwood number 5

it's not an unpleasant

sound,

the sound of keys clicking

on

the old black typewriter,

heavy

as marble,

the mechanics of it all.

the racket

of the return,

the ding

of the bell,

the slide of a new sheet

of paper

rolled in.

where do all these words

come from,

fresh thoughts,

smudged in ink?

when will

the well run dry and this

great

machine

rest at last in the corner,

breathing

a heavy sigh?

our secret lives

everyone

has a secret life, a secret mind,

have

words

they want to say

but don't.

things they want to do

but refrain

from.

they live lives quietly.

seeking

solace

in a warm sun, a cat,

a pensive stroll

around

a blue lake.

so much of who they

really are

remains unknown.

hopefully.

can you eat rooster?

i have

to get rid of these chickens,

this rooster.

always

up at the crack of dawn.

i like the eggs,

but my God,

that rooster is a nuisance.

i look out

the window

and shake my head.

there he is

on top of the lawn mower,

crowing

and crowing.

the sun is up already,

i yell out.

please stop.

can you eat rooster?

the shutdown

she hands

me a list of demands

that must

be made

or else

no love making will occur

until

each one has been

checked off

the list and done.

she's shutting me down.

she's holding me hostage.

keeping me

at bay.

it's funny how things change.

it's a game

of who can hold

out the longest

with tomorrow being another

sad day.

finding warmth

it's a light

lick

of frost, new ice

on

the golden

field,

the window

panes.

just a hint of what's

to follow

as the months

grow

darker,

until spring, once

more appears.

come closer.

come over here.

we need your money for everything to be free

ten

minutes after the socialist

communist

mayor is elected,

based

on the platform of everything

being free,

he goes on

tv

and begs his followers

for money.

send in your

donations now.

you can't make this stuff up.

hilarious.

let the insanity begin.

the potato will save us

Idaho

is excited about the new leadership

in New York City.

just like

in any

communist country

the staple

eventually becomes the potato.

and Idaho

is king of the potato.

they've got your Russets,

your Reds,

your sweet potatoes,

your mini-potatoes in a cute

mesh bag,

your Yukon Golds,

and your baking potato

for when you

have your ration of butter or sour

cream

bought at the government store.

farmers

are dancing in the fields,

doing jigs

on their dusty roads.

nothing like a peeled potato

in a bowl

of gruel

to start the week off right.

not to mention vodka.

who doesn't

like a bottle of potato vodka

as the city goes

to hell

in a handbag overnight?

another tetanus shot

mothers

were always worried about

kids

getting tetanus shots.

as they should

have been.

they stood at the door

with cotton

balls and

alcohol.

we were always

bleeding,

scratched, cut,

bruised.

summer was all out war in

the neighborhood.

thorns

and bushes, tin cans,

splinters,

rusty nails, fist fights,

and fences with sharp

prongs,

rabid

dogs running loose

with teeth

like wolves.

the toaster mirror

you don't look well,

she tells me.

you have dark circles under

your eyes,

the skin on your face

is deep

with lines.

look at you, just look

at you,

all pale

and skinny,

bald as a grapefruit

on the vine.

you're falling apart before

my eyes.

i turn the toaster sideways

to take a look

at my face in the reflection.

oh yeah, right.

Halloween was last night.

no it wasn't, she says.

it was last week.

i think you're out of time.

we'll get through this together

as i boil

water, staring at the pot,

waiting

patiently

while listening to another you tube

video

about the world ending

as we know it,

i find

a bump

on my leg, a little bite

from a spider,

or bug

of some kind.

i find the Neosporin in the junk

drawer

and squeeze out

a dab

and rub it into the swollen

spot,

i'm good at moving

on,

i think, resilient, 

while

still staring at the water

at last bubbling

in the pot.

dear anonymous

it's a good

feeling

to write something that strikes

a nerve,

that ruffles

some feathers, 

raises the blood pressure

and gets

under the skin

of a reader or two.

it's fun.

it means you've accomplished

what you

set out to do,

you've unraveled the nonsense

and stupidity,

and revealed to them

what's true.

here's a Kleenex to wipe

away those tears,

boo hoo.

therapy business is booming

i set up an appointment

with my

therapist via zoom, i can see behind

her in her waiting

room

twenty or more clients,

mostly middle-aged women

and teenage boys and girls.

almost all are wringing their hands

and crying.

muttering to themselves.

some are rocking back and forth

as they pull on their

blue hair

and nose rings.

hey, i say, do you have any

openings for a visit?

i don't know she says, as you can

see i'm so busy.

people are nuts these days

with this TDS syndrome.

business is booming.

i'll miss the orange man when he's gone.

i bought another boat

and a house on the lake, by the way.

but you look well, happy even.

so why do you need to come in?

i don't know, i tell her,

shrugging.

life has been a bowl of cherries

since i got

free from that loony bin.

just wanted to chat for a while,

check in.

shoot the breeze, see if you have

any new recipes for

chicken.

but if you're busy, i completely

understand.

the next great Exodus

from an aerial view

it looks like

the Exodus in the Bible,

thousands

upon thousands fleeing Egypt

for the promised land.

the Red Sea has parted

and away they go,

running with their cattle

and camels, goats

and chickens,

cows and horses,

women and children,

luggage and furniture

strapped

to the tops of their cars.

all heading south

away from New York City.

full speed ahead

for Tallahassee, Sarasota

Miami.

no money to fix things anymore

i should have thought longer

and harder

before renting out the three floor

walk up

in Brooklyn, but the price

was great.

i could see Manhattan through

the barred

bathroom window.

but then the heat went off,

there was rust

in the water, mice were everywhere.

i called the super

and gave him my list of complaints,

but he said, sorry,

no dice, nothing i can do.

the mayor has cut off raising

of the rent, so i don't have the money

anymore to fix things.

sorry dude.

try some cheese and mouse

traps, maybe

bottled war

to shower with

and an extra blanket at night.

rent's due tomorrow, by the way.

we should go on a picnic, she says

when

a woman asks you to go on a picnic,

you are in

like Flint.

when she spends the morning

making

cucumber

sandwiches with the crust

cut off,

and slicing apples into

eight parts,

it means she's thinking of other

things.

there's more

to the checkered blanket

than meets the eye.

look inside 

that country basket for

that bottle of wine

and glasses,

that slice of a fresh baked

peach pie.

there you go.

at last she's on your side.

where have all the flower children gone?

so many

angry people, obsessed 

with

hate

and acrimony.

waking up bitter and mean,

so sad,

so sad.

where is the love child

of the sixties,

the kind,

the merciful,

the peaceniks, the aquarians

wanting to make

a better way?

what happened to the flower

children,

with their crystals

and 

astrology, their yoga meditations

and magic

beans?

oh there they are, back on the street

protesting

with their hair dyed

blue and green.

the girl who loves horses

i see

her coming up the street

on crutches,

a cast

on her leg,

a surgical halo around her head

to keep

it from

bobbing

left and right as she

limps

towards me.

fell off your horse again,

right?

yes, she says, 

smiling wearily,

but it was my fault.

i shouldn't have

told him

to try and jump that fence.

i think i need

to lose some weight.

maybe get on Ozempic.

but i'll be riding again

soon,

maybe a year or two

once they put

a screw in my leg, and surgically

repair

my spine.

i have a down payment

on a new horse, though,

from a breeder in Middleburg,

the last one

didn't make it

when he crashed into the fence

then ran

into the road

where a tractor trailer

full of chickens

ran him over,

but i love horses, she says,

i can't imagine

my life without one.

do you have any extra-strength

Tylenol on you? by the way.

or morphine?

just 5 more democratic votes and the government reopens, easy peasy

all it takes

is 5 more democratic votes

and the government reopens.

snap

benefits go out.

EBTs will be flush again with funds.

workers get paid, planes

will fly.

the military men

and women get their hard

earned checks.

just sixty votes from the left side

of the aisle

to pass the same bill that was

passed 13 times in a row

and things

are fine,

but they won't,

they hold the country hostage

all in the name of giving illegal

immigrants 

benefits and money

they don't deserve.

they'd rather have

citizens starve and die, go broke,

go bankrupt,

get evicted.

and why? TDS, as usual.