in reverse

the car, old,
with rust, a pale
blue, now almost
grey like
that of a poet's
lock whose
time has come and
gone and isn't
read or understood
anymore.
it only moved
in reverse now,
going backwards
over all the roads
it took before.
like memory,
unwinding
at life's end,
as that curtain
drops and
there is no more.

photograph

though fine,
the photograph
of you
is who you were
a few minutes ago,
not who you are
now, or who you
will be tomorrow.
but it will
suffice and get
me through
another day,
then night.
i'll keep it close
beside me,
not far from
my pillow,
not far from
the windowed
light.

the seven date rule

i have a seven
date rule, she
says. so keep
your paws to
yourself. thus
the cobwebs about
you, i answer.
the rust, the dust.
you'll get nowhere
with that attitude
buddy, she replies.
nowhere is where
i am right now. so
what's the difference.
charmer, aren't
you, she says. not
really. just
annoyed. eat your
calamari, i have
to go in seven
minutes. my rule.

into the blue

in the air,
off the board
sprung high
into the blue
and white
sky of youth
you arrow up
then bend and
knife with
little splash
into the pool.
and only
by touching
bottom, your
knee, an elbow
perhaps,
with a scrape,
a strawberry,
will you see
some future,
some hint or clue
as to what
is ahead of you.

a cloud, the moon and blood

while you listen
to the poet,
who read her
work with
firey passion,
explain her
words, answer
questions
as to what
a cloud means,
or the moon,
or a drop
of blood,
you can
see her feet
tap below
the desk
her soul
inching out
the door like
smoke, wanting
to vent and be
done.

the chase

when the dog
got loose
to chase a cat
and ran and ran
until he couldn't
run no more, you
watched him
from the porch
as he disappeared
into the woods.
you stood there
with your cup
of coffee and
waited. he'd
be back before
dark. tired
and yet happy
to be free.
he reminded
you so much
of who you were.

lessened

a few degrees
less and there
will be frost
on the cars
a clean sheet
of ice to tend
with when
stepping out into
your day.
the world will
shrink in
slight defensive
ways, protecting
itself from what
goes on and what
is yet to come
under the lessened
light and sun.

toy shrek story tron transporter

while the movie
fades and the credits
roll and the music
sinks in as the lights
go up over
the rows and rows
of emptying seats,
she asks me if i liked
it, and i say, of
course. it was grande,
sublime, i love
the way they animate
things these days,
who doesn't like
a good cartoon?
it'll change my life
in time. okay, she
says, then you pick
the next one. oh, i
will, i say, i will.

pie girl

there is
no pie
like her pie.
the crust
is soft and
crumbly.
the apples
baked just
right, not
too sweet,
not too hard
or light.
and the
cinammon she
sprinkles
on the top
is just
enough to make
you smile
and bend
and sniff
and stop
and cut a
slice for
now, and one
to take away.
i think i'll
see her again,
some day.

girl with the orange mohawk

the girl
with the orange
mohawk
and a silver
stick pin
through her
lip, a pearl
in her tongue,
asked me with
a slight slur
and drool,
if i had
found everything
that i wanted
as my groceries
rolled along
on the belt.
yes. i said,
but if i think
of anything else
i'll be sure to
come back in after
unloading these
groceries into
the trunk of
my car. she wiped
her mouth
with the store
smock, and smiled,
and without saying
anything, said,
whatever,
grandpa.

good talk

what exactly are
you looking for
the therapist says
while you lie
prone on her couch
staring at the water
stain on her
white tiled
ceiling. i don't
know, you say,
glancing
around the room,
there are diplomas
in black frames
behind glass, and
some dried fake
flowers in a vase
on the sill.
an air freshener
is stuck to the
rattling radiator.
something
real, you blurt out,
someone simple
and yet complicated.
but with nice
legs. i really like
legs. nice legs,
she says. isn't
that a little
shallow. hey, you
say, leaning your
head up, aren't you
supposed to be helping
me, not judging me?
oh, right she says.
so we have a few
minutes left, let's
talk about your
desire to meet
someone with nice
legs. is she tall,
short, describe
her for me. is she
funny, smart too?
of course you say.
pffft. what am i some
kind of dope? okay,
okay, she says, so
tell me, did your
mother have nice
legs? you sit up
and stare at her,
what kind of a sick
question is that,
why are you bringing
my mother into this.
geez marie. she
scribbles a little
note onto her pad
then says, well
looks like our time
is up for today, good
talk good talk. i
think we're getting
some where.

free falling

in a moment of
insanity you decide
to jump out of a plane
over orange county.
you are in a rattling
small prop plane
with a boney old man
in a mustache at
the controls.
you have a silk
parachute attached
to your back. you've
been versed in the
act of jumping, of
floating, of pulling
the string, the backup
string, the emergency
string. you've said
your prayers and left
a note on the kitchen
counter. to whom it
may concern, it says.
take care of my cat
and split up the rest.
and as you float
serenely over
the quilted landscape,
of green plotted
land, of low trees
and sparse farms,
you turn to the pilot
and ask him if he
would kindly just
push you out with his
boot, you are not
the kind who jumps.
and so he does,
and away you go.

the swim

in the end
you slip quietly
into the sea,
back from where
you started.
the earth being
so much water,
as you are.
rising and falling
on some unseen
cue. and it's
just a short
visit that we
stand, and walk
about, before
the next swim
begins again.

in flight

there are birds
in the air.
scattered like
marks against paper.
blue birds
and starlings,
doves and blackbirds.
there's a cardinal
on the fence.
there are
sparrows perched
on the well.
the world is in
flight, or
waiting to be
and you want your
wings now,
it's time.

the weight

she no longer
counted her poems,
numbering them
on the far
right corner
with a black pen.
instead, she
weighed them
on a scale,
stacking the pages
and pages of
poetry like berries,
like meat,
like fish from
the market. and in
this way, she
measured out her
love, her memories
her losses
and years. that
relationship, she'd
say was two
pounds worth
of writing, or
that death, or parent
still gaining,
another page or
two, add more.

the broken plate

she holds the broken
fragment of a porcelain
dish up to the sunlight,
her hands full of mud.
she turns it over
and over, carefully
wiping away the dirt
to see the detail
and color of this dish
tossed away a hundred
years ago, or more
and she wonders how
it fell, or was it
thrown, or just slipped
out of someone's
hand when the news
came that she couldn't
believe, or begin
to understand.

the storm

with everything
you had to say
being said, you
say, it looks like
rain and point out
to where the clouds
have formed in
tall cathedrals.
feel how the wind
has picked up,
how the leaves
have curled like
soft green palms.
it looks like
it's going to rain
you say, but with
her arms folded she
doesn't come out
from behind the screen
door. you stand
on the porch
and watch a spike
of lighting
sizzle down into
the far off trees.
come in, she says,
come in. but you
don't, it feels
safer where you stand.

the red planet

let's go to mars
she says,
over coffee. it
only takes eight
months to get
to the red planet
and float slowly
down onto the hot
crust laden
surface. no.
you tell her,
you'll miss earth,
the coffee,
the atmosphere,
things like that.
but you go, i'll
wait.

buy two ovens, get the third one free

while you stand
in line at twelve
o one waiting for
the department store
to open so that you
can get another
tv, two inches
larger than the one
you have at half
the cost, you can
see the big
dipper over head
and all the constellations
as clear as the broken
glass glimmering in
the parking lot
that wraps around the
back of the cinderblock
store. and there
is a commraderie
of souls, with
their newspaper
clippings, their
coupons and cell
phones, all huddled
together, travelling
to this new world
where life is wonderful
with one more thing.
and you get a glimpse
of what it must be
like to be in
steerage as the titantic
sailed across
the north atlantic
on a night like this,
black friday.

the other side

you take your
shoes off
to cross the creek.
the water
is high and grey
in the low
sun of november.
you can see blue
stones along
the bottom, cold
and round
in their beds.
there are trees
that have fallen
across, broken
and being washed
away. too fragile
to walk upon.
you roll up
your pants
in the shadows
of rock
and leafless
trees
holding your
shoes high
in the air, there
is a patch of
sun in the green
moss that will
warm your feet,
and like a tight
rope walker
you cross
the water
to the other side.

pumpkin pie

you come home
late one night
after having a few
egg nogs with your
friends and there
is a pie sitting
on the kitchen
table. it's still
warm. there's
no one around, but
there's a note
beside it. don't
touch, it says,
we're taking it
to your mother's
tomorrow for
the holiday. it's
for dessert. you
go to the steps
and listen up.
nothing. no
lights are on.
everyone is sound
asleep. you go
back to the kitchen
and turn off
the light, you
crack open the fridge
to let out a
wedge of bright
white light at
an angle upon the
table and the pie.
you grab a gallon
of milk, pour
yourself a tall
glass, then get
a dish, a knife
and fork. at this
point the dog
wanders in and puts
his head into your
lap, his paws on
the chair. his
tongue is out as he
too stares at the
freshly baked pie
covered in a thin
plastic sheet.
beads of sweat
are on your forehead
now as you lift
the pie up, peeling
back the wrap and sniff
at it's tender crust,
you lick the tip of
your finger to lift
a crumb into your
watering mouth.
the scent of sweet
pumpkin is wafting
into your nose,
into your lungs,
down into your hungry
belly. the dog
bares his teeth,
drooling and licks
his chops. just one
piece you say
to the dog, who
appears to be nodding
and smiling, agreeing
that just one piece,
won't get us into
too much trouble.
so you carefully,
like a safecracker
drop the cold knife
into the meaty pie
carving out a perfect
wedge and then
lifting it onto your
plate. you cut a
sliver for the dog
whose tail is beating
fiercely now
against the table leg.
you put his dish
onto the floor, then
dig gently into your
slice when the light
goes on. there is the
woman who baked it,
your wife, with her
hands on her hips,
a scowl on her face.
you don't care do you,
what i say. you just
do whatever you want
don't you? you shrug
your shoulders and
meekly say, the couch
tonight? she shakes
her head and leaves
the room, not
answering. the dog
is rattling the plate
across the floor,
licking it clean.
then it occurs to you,
how could you, why
would you, what has
possessed you to eat
this pie without
whipped cream. you
reach onto the fridge
shelf and find
the can, spraying
it liberally onto
the pie and a squirt
or two into the dog's
open mouth.

willis the turkey

you decide this
year to buy a live
turkey, no more
frozen butterballs
for you. you want
some fresh meat.
so you ride
out to the country
taking the back
roads to a farm
that sells full grown
turkeys. you carefully
select one from
the barnyard full
of them, then put
him in the back
seat of your car.
you soon realize
though that you
should have
bought a cage for
him as he begins to
peck at the back
of your head
while you drive.
fortunately you have
a loaf of wonder
bread with you
that you were going
to make stuffing
with. you rip it open
and start throwing
back shredded slices
to keep the turkey
occupied. you put
some of the bread on
your neck where
you are bleeding from
where he's nipped
you with his beak.
you find yourself
calling him willis
for some reason
as he gobbles and
jerks about. you keep
an eye on him in
the mirror as he
struts back and
forth across the
back seat. you turn
the radio up which
seems to get him
going. his wings
flapping, his head
bobbing. by the time
you hit route 66
you've bonded with
this turkey and
there is no way
you can chop his head
off and eat him so
you pull into the safeway
and get the last
butterball turkey
from the frozen bin
and another loaf
of wonder bread.
they seem to be out
of turkey leashes
so you buy some
shoelacess
and tie them all
together. this will
have to do as you
walk him down
the street.

queen

she was sitting up
on the tall bed
with pillows behind
her head, in her
silk robe reading a
book on past lives
and reincarnation.
i was in the bathroom
scrubbing the floor
and spraying windex
onto the mirror.
i think i may have
been a queen in a
past life, she says
to me, putting
the book down and taking
a sip of tea that
i had brought up
on a tray. what,
i said, rubbing
my knees from
kneeling on the hard
tile. what makes you
say that. i'm not sure
she says, but sometimes
when i fall asleep
at night i can sense
my former self, i
can see pyramids
being built for me.
and you?

paris is waiting

how much
can you reduce
your price
the woman says
as she slides
into her fur
and adjusts
the diamonds
dripping from
her ears. i
want a lower
price if you
want the work.
i know others who
will do it for
far less, but
i like you, and
wish for you
to do it for me.
so how much
can you take off.
please tell me,
i need catch my
flight. paris
is waiting
and your truck
is dripping oil
onto my driveway.

on to you

i'm on to you,
you say, before
you go to sleep
and offer up a
pale prayer
of petition
you've said
a thousand
times before,
or more.
i'm on to you
you say,
of your sly
and jealous ways,
your quiet
inattention,
holding and not
holding all
within your hands,
turning nights
into stars, and
suns into days.
i'm on to you,
you say, before
falling fast asleep,
to the silence
to the mystery,
to a universe
unfazed.

a key ring

sometimes
the jiggle of
a key ring,
or the sound
of a shoe
walking
across the floor,
or a whistle
or a doorbell,
a knock
upon the door
can make you
remember her,
not exactly
of course, but
just enough
to make you wish
you were there
once more.

power lines

as the men
with an orange
ladder lean
high upon the tree
with tools
to cut the limbs
that hang onto
the power lines
you see
the fear within
their eyes, not
unlike those
standing on
the platform
awaiting the city
train that
takes them to
their offices
for the next thirty
years.

the brown coat

she left
her coat inside
the closet.
there was a hair
brush in
one pocket.
a scarf around
the collar
that smelled
of her perfume.
it was a long
coat as brown
and vacant
as the trees
outside the window.
it kept her
warm as we
walked along
the path.

wanting more

and sometimes
the story has
no ending. there
is no hero,
no love restored,
no losers, no
winners, it
just drifts off
into fading light
as the reel
ends and the credits
appear in
black against
the white
while the music
plays and plays.
and when the lights
go up, and you
are still sitting,
somehow expecting
more, you can't
help but feel that
there is something
missing as you
go back to your
own life, to your
own unfinished
story.

the pattern of falling leaves

as winter
approaches and
love unwinds
and the leaves
of days
turn color
and fall behind,
you see the bitter
sweet pattern
of what your
life has become
over time,
both yours,
and mine.

pulling the sled

low on vodka
and limes
you look outside
the front door
at the three
feet of snow
on the ground
and still falling.
your two dogs
are staring at
you, knowing
in a way what's
on your mind.
and you say to
them both, we
can do this
my little friends.
let's go!
but they run
before you
can get the
reins around
their chubby
dashcund necks.

the message

she missed
the last step
and fell.
the wind
was blowing,
it was dark
the ground
was covered
in wet leaves.
clouds
were over the
full moon.
none of this
she noticed
until she
tumbled
over and as she
lay there
thinking,
she finished
texting her
friend gina
about a new
dress she saw
in macy's window,
while rubbing
the bump
on her head.

tired of the man keeping me down

i was at the protest
rally in zucchini
park the other day.
i had just bought
a new full length
cashmere coat to wear
and had some day glow
signs made up
by my friend donna
the graphics artist.
they were very expensive
but quite nice
and easy to hold
with the maple sticks
they were attached to.
we disagreed on the font,
but i gave in cause
she knows what
she's doing
and i don't.
there was a coffee
shop nearby, so i
picked up an extra
hot grande latte
with four shots
of espresso to get
me through the hour.
i was tired of the
man keeping me down
and came to show
my support, but
my legs were tired
too and wished
there had been a few
more chairs around.
it was hard to hold
the sign, my coffee
and text my friends
while standing up
and chanting 'hell
no we won't go'. umm,
no that was the last
protest i attended
in the late sixties.
whoops, my bad. no
wonder people were
staring at me.

the script

you are to make
a movie of your life.
you write an outline
starting from
the beginning, from
birth, from before
that, to the point
where your parents
are born, then proceed
from there. through
schools, through
books, playgrounds
on wintry days, summers
on the beach. a first
kiss. a first love,
heartbreak and renewal.
there are brothers
and sisters.
the plot inevitably
thickens, the characters
disperse, they come
and go for no
apparent reasons,
you move from town
to town, you have a dog,
you have a cat, you
have a son, you buy
a red chair. suddenly
there is too much
detail and you've
written a script for
thousands. you stop
and throw it all into
the fire. you start
over, with no script.
you decide to make
the film in black
and white, keep it
simple, keep it real.
you press the button
and start now. there
is a cup of coffee
in your hand,
and the phone is
ringing.

the hat

the wind
blows your hat
free on
the street
so you bend
to pick it up
but it rolls
and flips
from side
to side down
the boulevard
through
an alley, across
the park, it
tumbles further
in the gusts that
lift it up
and set it down
again. there
is no catching
your hat as
the wind keeps
it just out of
reach until
you are in a place
you don't want to
be. and this is
how some days
are, taken away
from where
you were.

lady bug

in another life
i was a bug,
she says, a lady
bug for sure.
encased in a shiny
orange shell
with black
dots and thin
short legs
like exclamation
points. and
when my wings
opened, it was
an event, both
natural and unatural
as my round
soul flew into
the air like
bits of candy
searching for
an open hand
to land on.

yellow cab

you climb into
the yellow cab
which screeches
to a halt on
broadway and
slam the door.
the g force
pulls you back
into the seat
as the red digital
numbers spin like
a vegas slot
machine. you are
inches from
death, doing
sixty between lights
caromming towards
so ho. you grab
the strap above
the seat and ask
the driver how
many people die
a year in his
cab or gets hit,
and he laughs,
adjusts his turban
while eating
a gyro and says
no one dies in
my cab. everyone
survives. which
you tell him
is good to know
as you look at
the meter and
start counting money.

at the met

you visit
the met one
cool spring
day in new york
and lean
towards
the armor
glistening
behind
the glass. no
arrows could
penetrate
the rounded
shoulders
and sharp
edged hat,
the lance is
there too, so
long and
balanced in
the glove
of grey mail.
and it makes
you think about
your own armor.
so different
and yet so alike
in so many ways,
protecting
the heart.

the cat

a cat comes down
the steps
to see who is
in the house
and peers around
the corner at
you. he's striped
golden like
the bends of
sunlight through
the blinds.
he blinks his
sleepy green eyes
and yawns to show
his perfectly
sharp white
teeth then licks
his paw to rub
against his ear.
he watches you
moving about the
room as you work,
he stretches,
arching his
tall back,
having seen enough
and goes back
to where he
came from happy
to just be a cat.

black birds

these black birds,
out the window,
dozens on the wire
so loud and brash
with shiny wings
and bright sharp
beaks. they swarm
in slow clouds
almost falling
in their flight.
going nowhere. they
seem to know things
that you don't.

staying in

you sleep in
and let the day
unfold without
you. let the rain
fall, the clouds
keep their
curtains closed.
you let the phone
ring, the door
go unanswered.
the paper stays
put on the porch.
there is no news
you need to know
today. you put
on tea, you find
a book you've read
before and settle
in to wile away
these quiet hours.

on the curb

you separate
the tin
from the plastic
the paper
from the glass,
the cruel
from the good.
there is less
and less
worth saving
these days
when so much
can be put out
with the trash.

flu shot

she takes
a needle and
slides it
into your arm,
there you
go, she says,
wiping the dot
of blood
away with a
cotton swap.
you are flu
free for
another year.
and within
two weeks
you are flat
on your back
in a bed, unable
to breath,
coughing up
a lung as you
sneeze and
cool your brow
with an ice
pack. you
shiver and sweat
all at the same
time not wanting
death, but
not altogether
dismissing
the idea. never
again you vow,
if you recover,
will you get a
flu shot
from your barista
while waiting
for coffee.

your weather

undecided,
the weather
ever shifting
from grey and cold
to bright and warm
not unlike
the weather of you
so sunny some
days between
the stretches
of december's
dark and gloom.
i have my
finger in the air
testing your
wind, your rain,
the pressure
of your kiss.

conversational cliches

for when you
can't come up
with any lucid
original thinking
of your own:
apply liberally
and use in any
dish of stagnated
discussion looking
for a way out.
like really?
really? (make eyes
bug out and turn
head slightly to
either side, making
direct eye contact
with the individual
you are mocking)
it is what
it is. (this catch
all phrase is
good for all tragic
events, funerals,
train wrecks, other
unexplainable events,
ie., see republican
debates, reality tv
etc.) not so much.
this can be used at
the end of a one
word declaration.
such as: lima beans,
ummm, not so much.
really? just keep
saying this all
day long
and people will
think you're actually
listening to them.
ya think? (jut chin
forward with look
of clever arrogance
on your face) ya think?
who's your
daddy? oldie, but
still effective
after a few beers.
it connotes dominance
over another
individual in a
sporting event such
as foosball.
i'm not a fan of, etc.
this can be used
for anything you
don't like, such
as i'm not a big
fan of women
with fishing hooks
sticking out
of their lips.
peace out, also, right
on, keep the faith,
i'm outta here,
and see you on
the flip side. all
meaning, it's a
gots to go situation,
or later.

girl with black hair

she stands
with hands on
hips
in central
station,
her black
welsh hair
around her
shoulders
awaiting no
train, just
passing
through
on her way
to somewhere
new with you.

pizza with emily dickinson

there was a light knock on the door
as i settled into my recliner
watching a rerun of the twilight zone.
I was eating an anchovy pizza,
just delivered, still hot
in the box, the steam rising into my eyes.
i looked through the peephole,
squinting one eye.
it was my neighbor from upstairs,
emily. yeah. that emily,
the poet. ms. dickinson herself.
she had her spiral notebook in hand
and a pencil. she loved writing in pencil.
she had her usual violets pinned
to her white dress
and her hair up in a bun.
what, i said. what do you want?
i'm having dinner.
i'm stuck she said, in her high pitched
voice, i need some help with this poem
i'm working on.
geez marie, okay,okay, let me get
some pants on. I put the dog
in the other room, then let her in.
she sat down on the sofa
as i lowered the tv.
let me hear what you have so far.,
I said. sitting back down
is this a new poem, or an old
one? you have a tendency to
over work the old ones.
oh no, no, she said. it's a new one.
well, read it to me, pizza?
I held the box out to her, opening
the lid to show her the slices.
sorry, i'm clean out of carrots and lettuce.
no, she said, i don't eat meat, or
cheese, or anything delivered in a box.
suit yourself, I said. more for me.
okay, go. read.
she started reading her new poem, slowly, as
she liked to do, never looking up,
her fingers tapping her lips nervously,
her high laced boots clicking against
one another.
"because i could not stop for lunch,
i had a cup of tea.
i wore a hat outside today
because of the buzzing bees."
that's all i have so far
she said shyly, shrugging her narrow 

shoulders, and looking at her poem.
i took a sip of my beer and another bite
of pizza. it stinks I said. what kind of
a lame poem is that? it makes me sleepy.
i want to take a nap after hearing a poem
like that. what are the bees all about.
at this point she started to cry,
dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief
she pulled out of her high frilly collar.
come on em, you can do better than that.
i couldn't stop for lunch, what's
that? how about death, i couldn't stop for
death, now that's a poem. death, broken
hearts, love gone awry. that's
the kind of stuff people want to hear.
hmmm, she said. still sobbing a little.
maybe you're right. i'll keep trying.
good i told her. death, immortality,
stuff like that. be puzzling and
convoluted, critics like that too. and
the rhyming, you're hung up on that end
line rhyme, who are you, dr. seuss? tupac?
mix it up a little with some free verse.
just saying. i'm not giving up on you.
you have some talent, you're just a little
uptight. I looked at my watch. look, i
don't mean to run you out, but i'm missing
my show here. okay, she said. okay. i'll
work on it. is it okay if i bring it over
later to show you. sure, i told her, sure.
thanks, she said meekly, you're such
a good friend. but hey, i said, if i
have a red sock wrapped around
the doorknob, you know not to knock,
right? yes. she said. i do know that kind sir.
i will not knock if there is a sock.
whatever em. whatever.

a new language

you learn
another language,
tired of your
own, better
yet, you learn
to speak with
your hands in
getures like
a primate
at the zoo.
hunger,
thirst, love
and anger all
find it's way
into the motion
of your hands,
this annoys
people, but
you don't care.
you are tired
of your own
voice, of being
misunderstood.
you have shortened
conversations
to the basic needs
of your life.
and gives you
more time for
other things,
things yet
undecided.

on the bus

how the miles
unfold below
your seat,
as the wheels
roll hard
and long against
the black
pavement. through
the tunnels,
over bridges,
speeding through
each toll, each
minute tossed
aside as you
stare at a sun
tinted green
and blue settling
towards it's
next tomorrow
and what it may
bring at journey's
end for you.

time's square

as you stand
in time's square
on a warm
november evening
and the neon
obliterates
the darkness while
music plays,
drums are struck
as if some ancient
ritual is in progress
and cops on horses
walk through
the crowd, you
stand and try to
make sense of it all.
the naked cowboy
strumming his
guitar, the corner
vendors with
posters and chestnuts
hot dogs and pretzles.
the bars, the food
the show girls
and billboards,
there is madness
in us all, and this
carnival succeeds
each night in saying
so.

hot pastrami

worried about
the future we both
go down to
see the gypsy
on 42nd street
and lexington.
she's got a room
above a tailor's
shop that makes
clothing for
theater, the clergy
and the dead.
we get the two
for one deal
and she presses
our hands against
the table turning
them over and over
looking at the lines
and creases, but
says nothing.
and finally it's
time for lunch
and she orders
three hot pastrami
sandwiches and smiles.
on rye with mustard
and a pickle she
says looking at
me, smiling. you're
good i say, you
are good and so
we eat, then go
on about our lives.

old spice

when the ticket
taker at the movies
asks you for
id, it's not
because you are too
young, but quite
the opposite
and may qualify
for a discount based
on the fact that
you are probably
closer to the end
than she is. she
means no harm
nor does the boy
who holds the door
or asks you if
you need help
getting your
groceries to
the car. you resent
aarp and their
sunny magazine
with ads for sleep
apnea and
indegestion, and
hearing aids.
to hell with
the clapper and the
big numbered remote,
you shake
your head at
the traffic cop
who looks like
a boy scout.
the train has left
the station
and it's moving fast,
but it ain't over
yet. you've still
got a jump shot
and a bottle
of old spice.

bus to nyc

with ticket
in hand
you stand and
wait in line,
bag at your
feet, to board
the bus
to new york
city. you
have money
in your pocket.
camera.
a change or
two of clothes
and her beside
you to
keep you warm
when the wind
blows cold
across
the hudson.

packing

you begin to
pack your bag
for a two day trip.
you have enough
clothes to get
you through
a week stuffed
into the multi
layered zippered
bulging suitcase,
but you can't
find anything
that you can
eliminate. what
if it turns cold,
or rains, or
the pillow in
the hotel is stiff
and old. and
shoes, brown
and black. walking
shoes, casual
shoes, going to
a show shiny shoes.
somehow you manage
to close it up
and sit on
the porch waiting
for the cab to come.
you almost forget
then run in and
squeeze a few
packs of gum into
the little pocket at
the top, next to
the phone charger,
the battery pack,
the camera, pen
and pad, the map,
the pocket change
left over from the
last two day trip
you took.

full moon

after one
too many
martinis
you slip
on the wet
pavement
and roll
over onto
your back.
you stare up
a the perfect
white plate
of a full moon.
it's unflinching
eye looking
down on the likes
of you, not
trying to get
up, but enjoying
the lunar
moment and
wishing you
had a pillow.

rolling down the hill

there are children
at the top
of the grassy hill,
red cheeked in
hats and gloves,
lying sideways
about to roll down
the steep green slope,
and before they do
they yell out,
watch me mom, watch
me. and as their
mother turns her
head to gasp at what
they are about to
do they all begin
to roll and roll
and roll down
the sweet uncut grass
of their youth.

the toy boat

the small
asian man,
with a cigarette
unlit
in his lips,
stood in the cold
of the sunless
day, with his remote
control box
in his curled hand
near the flat
blue lake,
his black boots
in mud,
he brushed the grey
hair from
his eyes and
laughed while his
toy motor boat
screamed
across the watery
plains in circles,
in zig zags,
in stops
and starts,
whistling as it slid
as far away as
it could go on
it's battery,
then back. and when
he saw me watching
nearby, he smiled
and said, i have
another one
in my car. it's
bigger too.

the road less traveled

you place a book
at the bottom
of the door
to keep it open.
to keep the air
flowing in as
it moves across
the long green
lawn in the form
of wind. it's
a book of poems
by robert frost who
you can only read
in spans of two
minutes or less
without yawning
and going to
the fridge to
make a sandwich.
it's not that it's
bad poetry, or
unreadable poetry,
that would be
heresy, it's just
not my cup of meat,
as dylan would
say. it's tedious
and hard and
immedded with metaphor
and similes,
and mystery that are
all entwined like
thick green ivy
along the stacked
stones and wood
of that good fence.
it not only makes
me a good neighbor
but an indifferent
reader as well.

the story

there is more
to the story. there
is always more.
you can embellish,
make the room
darker, or lighter,
paint the walls
yellow, make
the curtains thin
like rain, green
like apples.
there is always
someone you can
place in a chair
within the room,
and a clock on
the wall that has
stopped. there can
be noise, the choke
of the radiator,
or two people
making love
on the other side,
in another rented
room. there can
be a knock at
the door, that's how
the story can
begin, or the phone
ringing late into
the night and you
pick it up and say
yes. hello.

rented room

you rent the room
above the kitchen.
there is an
ashtray on the table.
a cane left
in the corner.
a plant has survived
and sits green
on the sill
awaiting sunlight.
you sit on the soft
bed, feeling
the springs and hear
the faucet down
the hall dripping.
there is a book,
the secret of gaining
wealth and power
on the nightstand
next to an empty
bottle of gin. you
lie down and turn
off the light.
you close your eyes
and say, it's only
a dream, it's only
a dream.

like a stranger

kiss me like
a stranger
she said to me.
hold me
like there is
no tomorrow.
kiss me
like a stranger,
like it's
the very
first time,
tell me what
i want to hear,
even if it's
a lie. just
kiss me, kiss
me like a
stranger.

instant pudding

the instant
pudding
that you put
before me
needs a dollop
of cream,
whipped and
yes, with
a cherry
on top. i
don't ask
for much,
and if i do
not very often,
but this is
one thing
i draw
the hard line
on. instant
pudding. i'll
wait.

blue monday

the lack
of light
coming through
the blinds
just barely
the color
yellow, slipping
through into
the half lit
room and you,
the full length
of you lingering
on the couch
in a pool of
blue shadows
as if underwater,
awaiting what,
we both aren't
sure of, perhaps
the air
of an idea
to get up for.

cowboy up

you need to cowboy
up she told me
as i was spreading
neosporin onto
a paper cut on my
index finger. ouch,
i said as i applied
the translucent goo
to the quarter inch
long gash along the
tip of my pink digit.
huh, cowboy up, what
do you mean, i said?
you know, she said,
be tougher, be strong,
be brave, take some
chances with your
life. do some
hiking, go riding
along the trail,
cowboy up!
but i'm really afraid
of horses, i said,
and i'm not much one
for camping and eating
beans around the
campfire. at this
point she got up
out of bed and started
doing her morning
routine of push ups
and sit ups. i put
a pillow behind my
head and leaned up,
arm in the air on
account of my paper
cut and watched her.
you know, these
sheets are really soft
i told her as she
grunted out the count
of each push up. what
are they, 600 count,
very nice and soft.
i like em.

carryout

she had one
dish. chicken.
roasted,
baked, barbequed
and sliced
and seasoned
on a pyramid
of rice.
she didn't
want to learn
anything else.
it's enough she
said. and if
your aren't happy
with that, well,
too bad. i
have other
virtues with
which to make
you happy.

the fog of you

the fog
of you never
quite lifts
but lingers
just below
my knees
just above
the tips of
my toes.
it's thick
and mysterious,
every moving
around the
borders of
my otherwise
sunny life.

scratchy on the loose

i was sitting
on my front porch
awaiting the pea
pod truck to arrive
with a quart of
milk and a small
jar of marichino
cherries so that
i could make a
white russian
when my neighbor
gina came over
looking distressed.
she had a slew
of posters in her
hand with a picture
of a wild animal on
the front baring
it's teeth. she
had tears in her
eyes. what, i said,
what's up gina?
scratchy ran away.
your cat? no, and
she showed me the
photo of scratchy
with a reward of
a hundred dollars
printed underneath.
he's a ferret i
adopted from petsmart
and he's never been
out in the wild.
have you seen him,
she sobbed.
nope, i told her.
he has a little bell
collar, so if you
see him, or hear the
bell ringing, don't
try to catch him
with your bare hands,
he bites and scratches
pretty hard. i looked
at the long red
gashes on her arms
and legs. i see, i
said. hmmm. okay.
just throw a blanket
over top of him,
or a net if you have
one and call me. he
really likes peanut
butter, so if you put
some on the end of
a stick you can get
him close to you.
i'm posting a hundred
dollar reward. it's
just breaking my
heart losing him
like this. just
then the peapod truck
pulled up with my
quart of whole milk
and cherries. hey, can
i make you a drink,
a white russian
perhaps, no she said,
wiping her eyes, i'm
heading into the woods
to try and find him
before it gets dark.
well, good luck with
that. i'll let you
know if i see him, or
hear his bell a ringing.
thanks she said, handing
me a poster. she put
on her leather gloves,
grabbed her net,
then headed into
the darkening woods.

the sex talk

as we sit
in the theater
sharing a bag
of buttered
popcorn, before
the movie starts,
she leans over
and out of nowhere
whispers in
my ear. i'm done
with sex she says.
enough is enough.
i'm too old,
too tired, un
interested in that
sort of activity
anymore. i don't
want another man
to touch me as
long as i live.
just the thought
of it repels me
and makes my
skin crawl.
you shake
your head and say
nothing. you
sip your coke,
you eat your pop
corn and try to
answer the trivia
questions on
the big screen.
silence
is the only way to
go with this
conversation. and
as she reiterates
too loudly, no
more sex for me,
you promise
yourself that
never again will
you take your mother
to the movies.

thristy not hungry

the man on
the corner holding
the sign
saying god bless
please help
homeless in neatly
written block
print with a
sharpie wants
nothing to do
with the loaf
of bread i bring
him. it's black
olive
and still warm
from the oven
of the round
the corner bakery.
what do you
want me to do
with this he
says, as he looks
at the rounded
crusty bread
in the crinkled
bag. eat it,
i tell him. you
don't get it,
do you, he
admonishes me.
i'm thirsty, not
hungry.

left as it was

everything left as
it was, the toaster
where bread was
browned, the couch
set just so where
one could sit
and see a television,
a plant upon
the shelf still green,
and books with
pages dog earred
awaiting eyes
to begin again
to read. that purse
left on the table,
open where her
hand had been,
her phone still
blinking, and on
the counter, a
grocery list,
a ring of keys.

stars and sand

you don't need
to be old
to be there,
but it helps
as the brilliant
sun, sparkling
on a golden blue
sea, settles down
nicely for
the day. and you
sink into your
summer chair,
feet curled
in warm sand
and wait for
the stars
to arrive. and
they come and
come, until
there is nothing
but a cluster
of diamonds
that fills your
heart with joy.

the check up

feel my head
she says, i think
i have a fever. my
throat is scratchy
too. you put your
hand across her
mildly warm
brow and say no.
i think you're
just glad to see
me. open your
mouth, you tell
her with your
bedside manner,
let me take a
look at those
tonsils. i don't
have any, she
says, they were
taken out when
i was seven. hmm.
you say. well,
unzip your dress,
let's take a
closer look and
make sure there
are no rashes or
unusual bumps. if
you insists, she
says. you put your
ear against her
chest and say
your heart is
beating a little
fast, but otherwise
you seem to be just
fine. to be on
the safe side,
perhaps we
should stay in
tonight, open up
a bottle of wine.

silently the bus goes by

the deaf man
you see everyday
on the sidewalk
happy with his
friends
frenetically
signing, speaking
in their way,
has missed his
bus. he slaps
his hands against
his legs
and looks up
at the wet sky.
his lips are
moving, and you
beep your horn
to get his attention,
to offer him a
ride, but he
doesn't hear you.
and the car
behind you is
cursing as
the light changes
to red, and no
one has moved.

keeping time

you watch
the clock move,
it's black
hands rising
and falling
with each new
tick of each
second turning
towards
minutes, then
hours. and
the page of
the calendar
across the room
waits patiently
it's turn,
while the trees
outside join in
and let their
leaves drop
in a flurry
of timed color.
your hair too
grows white while
you bend towards
your own
tomorrow.

window washers

as the men
hang from
the side
of the building
and the slight
sway in wind
and shift
of an earth
every spinning
keeps them
fearful of
the fall
the glass
gets clean.
it's no easy
task to see
clearly what
needs to
be seen.

a new day

as you lean
the cold
extension of
the aluminum
ladder up
against the brick
wall in order
to climb onto
the roof
to reach the next
level of peeling
paint, and rotted
wood, and gaps
between
the boards
you see a red
bird sitting on
the roof's edge
watching,
waiting for
you to rise
and begin your
new day.

in the morning

the cracked
vase
on the shelf,
the torn
shoe, the broken
window
and stuck door,
the worn path
in the hall
rug, the stove
that won't
light,
the draft coming
in from
the attic.
none of it
matters when
i see you
in the morning
sleeping next
to me.

shawshank

you manage to wiggle
your way out of
your straight jacket
and saw through
the bars of your
cell before lunch,
but you know it
will be tough
getting over
the barbed wire
and past
the armed guards
posted high above
the wall. you
don't care though.
you will swim
through that
sewage pipe
and get out to
the other side.
it's well worth
the effort to be
finally free and
no longer married.

horizon

you begin
to tell her
how much you
really care,
how much you
truly love
her and want
to make a go
of it, but in
the middle of
voicing your
deep and
earnest affection
the call drops
because you
have a piece
of crap cell
phone and the
service
which ryhmes
with horizon
has monkeys
taking calls
and running ship.

why apples

when you came home
you pulled up
your mask of zorro
from your sweaty
face and spilled
your plastic bag
of candy onto
the floor. slowly
you separated
the gum from
the lollipops
and candy bars
pulling them all
with a sweep of
your small hand
into large stacks
and the sweet tarts,
the mary janes,
the twizzlers and
licorice. gum balls.
the random apples
never stood
a chance, tossed
to roll towards
the other side
of the room clunking
against the wall
like bowling balls,
why you would wonder
out loud with a
laugh, why apples.
what kind of a crazy
person gives out
apples?

the moment gone

your children
are asleep
in the other room
down the hall
past the lamp
the plant, the
dog that lies
blessedly
unknowing.
your children
tomorrow are
gone, fast
in their own
lanes, their own
beds, towards
another life
you'll never
truly know.
the moment savored,
is the moment
gone.

winter sky

you are barely
there. a thin
fog of a man
in thread bare
clothes, gasping,
on grey lungs,
on two old legs
that hardly
move. you are
barely there
amidst the living
shadowing your
day with tattered
dreams, and moth
eaten memories.
you are barely
there as the sun
rises on cold
blue snow easing
just so into
the winter sky
above the park.

cold summer

it's too cold
out for shorts,
but like the fool
you are, you wear
them anyway. you
have a tendency
to hang on to each
glimmer of summer
fading fast. it's
worth the shiver
to pretend that
things aren't the
way they really are.

gypsy queen

with her black
hair like
a gypsy queen
and her
crystal ball
and porcelain
white skin,
she knows
the future,
she knows
in a minute
after stroking
your hand
and one sweet
kiss where
you are going
and where
you will have
been. believe
her.

the land line

she used
to set her
blackberry
on the table
and text
and type
and take messages
as the meal
came and went.
sometimes
she'd look
up at you
and nod politely
as if she
heard what
you were saying.
her fingers
moved rapidly
along
the blinking
keyboard
between
slices of bread,
sips of wine,
strands of pasta
going down. oh
how i missed
when there was
only a land line.

like

it's like
this, i like
really really
like this
cup of coffee
it's like so
likable. don't
you think,
i mean really.
how's your
coffee, are you
like going to
drink it while
it's still,
like so hot?
are you like
too tired
to talk, or are
you like mad
at me for saying
like in every
sentence. an
answer from you
would be like
really nice. don't
you like me
anymore? i would
really like
to know. please,
like just nod
your head, or
like something.

street theater

the dog wearing
antlers
crossing the street
towards
the bulldog
with a string
of christmas
lights blinking
around his
collar. the moon,
a bright
slice of glitter
above it all
as you in a
policewoman's
outfit sucking
on a lollipop
hold the leash
attached to me
dressed as
abe lincoln
going to the
theater.

the birdhouse

your sister,
the one you stay
in contact
with, sends you
a birdhouse
in the mail.
she made it in
her garage last
spring, she
made six of them,
one for each
sibling. it's
a fine bird house
once you put it
together
and paint it.
and if you
were a bird
you could live
there. it
has a round
hole as a door
and slits
for windows.
you peer inside
and imagine
yourself on
the couch reading
a book or
watching tv.
you hang it on
a tree outside
your window,
and you wait
to see who makes
it a home.

her knee

she wants to show
you her scar
so she lifts up
her dress
and points
at the round bend
of her knee.
there is a moon
shaped curve
of healed
skin, a scar as
thick and pink
as a worm.
and then
it's your turn,
but you don't know
where to start, so
you kiss her
and say, let's
change the subject.

dreaming of camels

you have a dream
about camels.
one hump camels,
brown and long
legged. you
want to ask
them how they
can go so long
without water,
months and months
without even
so much as a
sip. but they
don't speak
your language
as they stare
back at you with
large saucer
eyes, blinking
in the desert sun.
this has nothing
to do with
love, of course.

the red sweater

it's a rainy
saturday and cold.
so you decide
to clean out your
closets and drawers.
reassess your
wardrobe. you
take inventory of
thirty seven white
t-shirts, and
six black sweaters.
five pairs of jeans
and nine button
down white shirts
that all need
ironing. you need
something red.
you need something
to jazz up your
combination of black
and white, so you
go to the mall and
buy a bright red
sweater. that night
you put it on to
go meet sally for
drinks. you feel like
a big tomato sitting
there on the bar
stool and she
laughs when she
sees you. what's up
with the sweater
she says. i don't
think we can go
out anymore if you
wear that again.
smartly though, you
haven't taken the
tags off the sleeves
and you still have
the receipt folded
in your pocket.

dinner and a movie

she doesn't love
you anymore,
she says on
the phone that
you are selfish
and self absorbed,
distant and aloof.
she doesn't know
how or why she
ever got involved
with the likes of
you. this goes
on and on so you
set the phone
down next to
the goldfish bowl,
you feel like
these are things
that goldie should
hear, that apply
more to her than
to me and after
you fix a cup of
tea and some toast
you pick the phone
back up and say,
uh uh. are you
listening, she
says, did you even
hear one word
of what i just
said. i finish
chewing my toasted
raisin bread, and
say, yup, i heard
all of it. so what
about friday, there's
a great movie
playing. dinner,
movie, back to my
place for a game
of scrabble?

tomorrow comes

busy in
his old age
with a wrench
tightening
screws. finding
loose bolts
and nuts with
which to turn
and tighten.
there is always
a door ajar,
or window stuck,
there is
the whistle
of wind that
seeps through
the attic
floor. there
is suddenly
everything never
seen when life
held more.

halloween

below the harvest
moon, with orange
licks of
buttered candy
and swooping
trees, where ghosts
and goblins
and bright striped
bees swarm
under chilled
winds, the arms
of parent
with lights in
hand guide
the way, yet only
for awhile,
only for awhile.

better left unsaid

some words
when at last
all who remain
are gathered to
post farewell, why
bother now with
the story told
of what was said,
or unsaid, the
meaness or callous
ways of those
departed, why
spoil what has
gone when there
is no one left
to defend whether
truths or lies
are right, are
wrong. yes, better
left unsaid, when
the handful of dirt
is tossed upon
those descending,
and the final bell
has tolled,
what harm is there
to let him go
as a saint and be
done with it, and
the final tale
untold.

the red bowl

you can't
reach the top
shelf, so you
pull a chair
closer to
the counter
and step up
in your stocking
feet.
it's a bowl
you never use
that you want.
it's glass,
and red. as
red as cherries
on a tree.
it reminds you
of christmas
as you hold
it up to the
window and let
the light
stream through.
and when
you've had
enough you reach
back up
and slide it
into place.

the wedding party

when the wedding
party ends,
and the last
dance is danced,
the cake cut
and eaten, when
the last bottle
of champagne
is popped
and drained of
every pink bubble,
what then, she
thinks, staring
at the bathroom
floor.

when the battery dies

you resort
to pencil and pen,
finding a scratch
pad to make
a list of things
to do, what
to buy at
the grocery store,
who to call
and when.
it's strange to
hold a pen
in your hand
and not a
touch screen
phone where
everything is
kept in a world
you know little
about, or how
it all works,
but strangely
trust, not
unlike your faith
in a higher
power, and prayer.

two pictures

nervous and shy,
she sends you a photo
before meeting. she's
at a church picnic
wearing a checkered
dress with a ribbon
around her waist,
and is holding a plate
of cupcakes with white
and pink icing. it's
a lovely picture,
her long hair
in the sun, the smile
on her face, but i
can't see her eyes
and there is too much
distance from
the camera, so i ask
for another picture,
something more
revealing where i can
see what she really
looks like without
the sunglasses, and so
she does. the next
picture she's wearing
a leather bikini,
holding a bullwhip
in one hand and chewing
wildly on a raw
steak in the other.
behind her there is
lightning in the sky.
better, she says?
you say yes, better.

being there

the graffiti
man, with his
cans of orange
glow and green
as bright as
apples sprays
his name and
sign along
the high water
tower and
beams of bridges
that rise
above the high
way, while
below a stray
flea bitten
dog pees upon
the hydrant.

the upside of losing it

after leaving
the stove on,
she put the milk
into the cupboard,
her keys
in the freezer,
she kissed
the cat goodnight
and told me
that she loved
me and couldn't
live without
me, things
aren't exactly
right, but it
seems there is
an upside to her
losing it.

behind you

you are being
followed.
you can feel
the presence
of someone
behind you.
hear their
shallow breathing,
the low beat
of their heart,
the soft
tip toe
of their shoes
through
the alley,
past the empty
benches
of the park.
you look over
your sholder,
but see no one.
it's always
been this way,
making you walk
faster, pressing
you forward,
to get to where
you're going
sooner.

monkey love

your new pet
monkey, jimmy,
or j j as you
call him,
gets out of his
cage and
uses your
computer while
you're at work.
he loves your
new mac.
the next day
you have a truck
load of
bananas at your
door. you
give him a look
and shake your
finger at him.
he shrugs
his shoulders,
then scratches
his coconut head,
showing
his teeth in
a wide smile.
you notice
that there are
now two monkeys
in the cage
and one is
wearing a short
dress, high heels
and making
noises with
a russian
accent. she's
wearing bright
red lipstick.
you forgive him
though. you can
understand that
kind of lonliness.

crazy girl

if you place
a shallow bowl
or dish of
white vinegar out
it will take
away the smell
of paint, or
other odors
that may offend
you. don't ask
me how, she
says, it just
works. and
the garlic
wreathe upon
the door, what's
with that, i
ask her. that
keeps away
the dead who
want to suck
your blood, she
says and offers
me some candy
from her plastic
pumpkin.

velvet cupcake

you left
your velvet
cupcake
on the sill
of the window
and the birds
have flocked
upon it.
the pink
ribbed paper
is all
that's left
to remind me
of who you
used to be.

the caged tiger

someone begins
to tell you a story.
you are on the bus
going to the zoo, so
you are trapped,
and have to listen.
it's a long story
that makes you
stare out the window
after a while. you
no longer nod, or
say hmm hmm to let
them know you are
listening, the window
is fogged with
your breath as
the person tells
you about their
life, the injustice
of parking tickets,
and spilled milk.
they tap you on
the arm to make a
point, they laugh,
they cough,
there may even be
tears at some point.
it's a long ride
to the zoo and you
can't wait to get
there, to hear
the silence of
the caged bengal
tiger who paces
restlessly
in the long shadows
of his day.

the kindness of others

you make
the mistake
of climbing
the mountain
that you see
outside your
window. you
take a cup
of coffe
and your cell
phone, but
you realize that
halfway up,
it's getting
harder to
breath and it's
cold. a jacket
and gloves, and
a wool hat
would have
helped, as would
rope, and
a pick and axe,
and oxygen
tubes and a
nice relief
map, but you only
have your coffee
and phone.
fortunately you
come to your senses
before you black
out and a bear
eats you,
and go back
down, taking
the path that
others had carved
out, being so
thoughtful
and so kind.

love

what isn't lost
is never
found, it stays
where it always
was, out of sight,
out of mind,
collecting dust,
fading in
the long days
of sun, going
brittle
with winter
and you becoming
one.

what time has done

you google
friends who were
friends, picking
faces from
memory, names
that scratch
the surface of
your mind, you
search
for them on
facebook and
various other
places that they
now reside, not to
talk, or to e mail,
or text or to
friend again,
but to just see
what time has
done to them
whether kind,
or unkind.

what did you do today, dear

in her under
wear she goes to
the window
to wave to
the mailman
as he takes his
time putting
the junk mail
through the slot,
he tips his
hat, his bag
less heavy, and
then the milkman
comes and
puts an extra
bottle of
whole milk
into the silver
box on the porch.
a dozen eggs,
a quart of orange
juice. he waves
and smiles.
the yard workers
take their
time, cutting
the lawn,
trimming
the hedges,
digging weeds
where there are
no weeds.
they climb the trees
to cut the dead
branches, staring
into the window
where she stands
and grins in
her silky shorts,
and then
the boyscouts,
a troop
marching along,
stops to salute
her before
moving on to
camp and tie knots
and to dream of
her while they
toss and turn in
their pup tents,
and finally
her husband arrives
and she greets
him at the door
fully dressed.

i hop

love is
a monkey wrench
you tell
her over
coffee and
cigarettes.
you are dining
late into
the night at
the international
house of
pancakes,
in fact it's
early morning.
three a.m.
you want
the waitress,
brittany,
in her blue
uniform to take
the plates
away of cold
eggs and nibbled
toast, but she's
busy in the kitchen
with juan,
a monkey wrench?
she says, blowing
smoke up
in the air.
it's nineteen
eighty-four,
you could smoke
then. yes,
you tell her
and sip your
black coffee.
it's heavy, it's
awkward, love is
hard to carry
around sometimes
and you don't know
where to put it.
i don't know
what the hell you're
talking about,
she says, but
i think you're
cute anyway. i hear
her heel go
off under the table
and then feel
her foot caress
the inside of my
pant leg. at this
point i try
to stop talking
crazy talk
and leave a
twenty on the table
for brittany.

the number

it's funny
how what you
throw away
is what you
need next.
the thing
that never
got used
in years
is tossed,
and then,
suddenly
you need
that phone
number you
scribbled
on a napkin.

towards land

it's the rowing,
the infinite
number of strokes,
the splash
and pull of oar
in water across
the dark lake
of time. slow
and easy, there
is no downhill,
there is no
path without
a storm, without
wave upon
wave before you.
it's the rowing,
not the land
so far ahead.

new born

a new born
as pink as a
fresh balloon
against an
april sky,
his milky
green eyes
half open
to the light,
his impossibly
small fingers
reaching
for what he
wants, not
what he needs,
and this is
how it starts.

bus stop

standing
alone at
the stop,
you feel
the cold
in your toes
first.
in your hands,
the tip
of your un
covered nose.
a wind rises
up your cuffs
and a shiver
rattles you
from top
to bottom.
this isn't
your bus
to get on
and leave,
but you wish
it was.

six across, the goddess of love

an old man
without his shirt,
back in his
soft chair,
the grey
tuffs of his
chest, tanned
and in the sun
his black
glasses on.
the paper
folded with
an unfinished
puzzle in
his lap as he
dozes with
pen in hand,
and a word he
used to know
left somewhere
on the tip
of his tongue.

it's hardly
rainin

the morning bath

the smell
of morning,
of shaved soap
and water,
the hot rising
steam above
the steel
white tub
with you sub
merged not
unlike
a pale ghostly
dream, your
leg lifted
along the rim,
your eyes
alive with
what will
come, and me
standing there
overwhelmed
with the quiet
of you.

frost bite

baby it's cold
out there,
but not as cold
as it suddenly
got in here, we
really need
to have that
talk, don't we.
i don't know
what you heard
out there on
the street, but
let me put some
gloves on,
a hat and scarf
and overcoat
as well. i
can tell by that
look in your
eye, that it's
going to be a
long cold winter.

bag by the door

the sun
only has five
billion
years left
before it
burns itself
out and
becomes
a red giant
that obliterates
our orbit.
i haven't
made plans
yet, but i
keep a bag
by the door.

politics

you grow
weary listening
to the debate.
words,
grandiose
statements of
change and
jobs, of ending
wars and
poverty and
keeping out
the unwanted.
it's the same
as it always
was for as long
as i can
remember. the
hot air
wafting above
the crumbling
rafters while
rome burns,
and the ashes
blow like
failed
promises across
the scorched
earth.

your basket

your basket
of sorrows
like stale
bread, spoiled
eggs, bad
fruit is in
your arms
again, and
yet again as
you walk
the streets
at night,
everything
you say,
everything
is fine,
your world
is right.

hollow moon

the woods
are not quiet
tonight.
the trees
are haunted
the leaves
are whispering
on the wind.
the stream,
so cold
and clear this
time of year
is speaking
to the stones
it rolls upon.
i won't venture
near, this
late at night,
leaning
out the window
at the hollow
moon.

no pulp welfare

the tired man
on the bench
dressed in rags
yells over to me
for a match to light
his fat cigar.
i tell him that
i don't have one,
that i don't
smoke and he sits
up and says, what's
wrong with people,
what the hell is
wrong with this world
today? do you have
anything to drink,
some scotch and i tell
him i can run up
and make him a quick
apple martini
and bring it down
to him,
and he laughs and
says what are you,
some kind of girl.
what about a sandwich,
do you have any
food up there to
bring down?
sure, i tell him,
ham and cheese okay?
toasted he says,
with mayo and onions,
on rye,
lettuce, but no
tomatoes, i'm
allergic to tomatoes.
and a dill pickle too.
okay, okay i tell
him, i'll be back.
hey he says, i'm
going to be hungry
and thirsty tomorrow
morning too, do you
do breakfast? i
like my orange juice
with no pulp.

the hunt

i could eat meat
she says, buttoning
her coat for the long
walk up the avenue.
charred red meat
and potatoes. throw
in a green bean or
two if you'd like
and a slice of bread,
but for the most part
i'd like a slab
of meat for dinner
tonight, can you do
that for me? i put
my hat on, and gloves,
wrap a scarf around
my neck and say, sure,
let's go. let's beat
the rush, and get
there before it's
all gone.

nothing surprises

nothing surprises
you anymore.
the earth being
round, the sun
being too far
away to ever
visit, and hot,
the moon just
a white ball
of dust and useless
crumbling rock,
nothing causes
alarm anymore,
not the neighbors
who argue through
the walls and then
make love at night,
the phone ringing
at three a.m.
with only bad
news. nothing
that people do
with guns and knives
makes you raise
your eyebrows and
go oh my, anymore.
too much water,
bad water under
all of these bridges.
the evangelist
with a whore,
the politician
stealing petty cash,
the mechanic not
changing your oil,
the one you love,
who slips out
through the open
back door.

sylvia

you get a post
card from
india. i miss
you, it says.
i love
you, signed
sylvia. but
you don't
know anyone
named sylvia.
you write
her back though
and ask her
when she's
coming home,
you tell her
how things are
not the same
without her.
the cat is on
the window sill
waiting
patiently.
you tell
her that you
love her,
that you miss
her, then
you go to
the post office
and tell
them you want
postage to
get it to india
to the woman
that you
now love,
sylvia.

meteor

you lie
in the cold
grass of
october, staring
up into
the clear
starlit sky.
you wait
and wait
for the streak
of light,
the meteor
that shoots
out of nowhere.
so brilliant,
and rare,
and how is
love not like
that, i ask you.

marching

i'm marching
in a circle
for work, more
jobs, to cure
a disease,
to end the war,
i'm up and down
the streets
with every colored
ribbon you can
imagine. my
shoes have
holes in them
from all the
marching i've
done lately.
end this, begin
that, let's
change the system,
make it all
right and we
can do it with
signs and shouts
and ribbons
and by marching
marching and
more marching.
i would march
all night, all
day, through
the snow and rain,
but at some point
i have to go
home and feed
my dog.

with heart in hand

the thought of
you, the storm
of you, the weather
that you bring
when you appear,
is slipping
like a road
covered in
fast falling
snow. i no
longer look
out the window
to see you
coming up
and over
the rising
hill with heart
in hand.

mona lisa

you wake up
in another time,
in another place,
the renaissance
period,
and there is a
knock at your
door, it's da
vinci wanting to
borrow a palette
of magnesium white
paint, and you
tell him no, go
get your own paint,
and he says, hey
but, and you say,
no buts about it,
always running out
of paint, aren't
you, can't you see
i have a guest
here, which is
mona lisa, who's
sitting on
the straw bed
with a smile on
her face and putting
her boots on.

cat bliss

the cat
arches her
back in
the moonlight
upon the sill.
she can
stare for
hours at
what passes
by the window.
bliss
is in not
knowing, not
coming,
not going.

you hear
the horses
late at night
riding into
town,
the rope
going over
the high tree.
you lie
in your cell
unrepentant
and asleep
believing
your guilt
will be worked
out on
the other side.

round and round

in a circle
she goes,
chasing her
tail in
a basket empty
of clothes,
round and
round and
round, there
is no place
left to
go if she
catches it.

a sea of coffee

the world
is a sea of
coffee.
cups are adrift
everywhere
you look.
there goes
one down
the street,
floating in
the gutter
with lipstick
on it's white
hard rim
as the rain
steams down
from espresso
sky, lids like
rafts, white
circular
dots of plastic,
remants from
that morning
cup, that
afternoon
pick me up,
that dessert
after dinner
latte.
the world
is a sea
of coffee, and
i'm in line.

did you find everything you need

is there anything
else i can
help you with, did
you find everything
you need today, the
cashier says, as
she puts your box
of donuts into
a plastic bag, and
you hesitate, but
then begin to
tell her about
all the things on
your list that you
need and want
help with, the line
backs up, and
people are grumbling,
but you begin to
tell her about
the time your
mother forgot your
birthday when you
were twelve, and
go from there.

from corner to
corner, the mad
man in dreadlocks
and baggy pants,
talks to no one
and everyone,
his hands moving
like vipers
in a pit, his arms
going up and
down, sideways.
he is feared, making
others go to
the other side
of the street
while he partols
the world that he
is in.

clown days

you come home
from work,
and take off
your clown
suit, the fat
red nose.
the water
flower from
your lapel.
you wipe the
make up off
your face,
then fling
your floppy
shoes to the
corner and sit
there in your
yellow silk
suit, like
a deflated
banana after
a long hard
day where
no one laughed.
bastards.
you get up and
fix yourself
a drink
pulling off your
orange fright
wig. there has
to be better
way you think
to yourself,
a better way.
coal mining
crosses your mind.

no going back

it turned
cold
suddenly.
blue skies
gave way
to grey.
the clouds
rolled
in thick
and low
across
the tops
of empty
trees.
the earth
thickened
as the wind
blew in
out of
nowhere.
there is no
going back
in weather
like this.

despite being
full, you manage
to eat one more
chocolate covered
donut. what
the hell you say,
winter is on
the way and i need
another layer
of fat to see
me through those
dark snowy nights.
what's one more
donut anyway.

the venus fly trap

someone sends you
a plant
in the mail.
someone
who left her
shoes under your
bed a few times,
not lillies, not
roses, not
flowers of any
friendly sort,
but a venus fly
trap. the note
with it says,
this is you, and
i'm apparently
just a fly in
your life. enjoy.
i find it all
very clever and
creative and so
call her up
to apologize
for everything
i've ever done
to hurt her,
then ask her out
to dinner
on friday night.
she says no, but
i put the plant
on the table
anyway and open
the window
to let new flies
fly in.

the walk

you realize now
looking back
and seeing where
you have come
from and where
you are now,
that you can go
forever, walk
from here
to china
and not get
tired when
there are things
to think about.

how

they scatter
quickly
in the wind.
these years.
these leaves
that turn
on cue
with each new
season,
and you press
them firmly
into the folds
of your memory,
between
the thickend
pages
of now
and youth.

the sea at night

in the night
when you take
the boat out
and strike
the oars let
them rattle hard
in the iron
of their rowlocks
and as you push
them into
the dark sea
pulling towards
the full moon
with a quiet splash
and it's white
embrace, it's
not the journey,
or where to
that's important,
it's more than
that. it's you
being in
the boat, in
the night, in
the sea, alone.

like apples from a tree

she falls in love
easily, men
are like apples
falling from a tree
in the wind.
she can't catch
them fast enough
before they hit
the ground,
or quick enough
before they turn
brown, and the worms
have bitten into
the soft thin skin,
but it's love she
says, true love
for sure this
time as she tosses
another one into
her basket of
shied cores.

these diamonds
on the shore
of night
as the black
sky rolls out
it's gems.

hey where did we go

there is sometimes
something that you
went for and left
without. it was
the one thing that
inspired you to
get up from
the couch and
venture out into
the cold rain to
buy and drive
to the grocery store
glowing like a
beacon in the night.
but you got
distracted by
the lights and
shiny floors, the
rattle of empty
carts, the soothing
music piped in from
the sixties. marvin
gaye cooing as you
leaned over
the tomatoes, the
ripe red delicious
apples. van morrison
happily singing
brown eyed girl,
making love behind
the stadium,
in the tall grass,
while you surveyed
the cookie aisle
then wandered towards
the milk. so many
milks to choose
from. and by
the end of the
temptation's ain't
too proud to beg,
sweet darling, your
cart was full, but
still missing that
one thing that you
should have written
down.

horseback riding

the horse never
throws you, no,
she insists, it's
your fault for
falling off. she
says this from
her hospital bed
where she has
just awakened from
a three day a coma
after hitting
the brick wall
where she rode in
circles her mare.
the white helmet
she was wearing
sits on the bed.
dented and scratched,
bloodied. something
spooked her, she
says. poor baby.

store front vet

and as the doctor
smiles, not with
his eyes, and the
receptionist, red
eyed and bent,
head over her
magazine, quiet
in her professional
way, you
step towards
the small back
room of green
linoleum tiles
and a steel
gurney where
the dog, your
bright lover
of life will
lie, and finally
without command,
stay.

shadow

even your shadow
has forsaken
you, when you turn
around it's gone,
no longer stuck
to the back
of your shoe.
you yell out
for it in vain.
it doesn't like
this dark side,
it wants the sun,
the blue
sky of you.
not this, so
grey and covered
in rain
tattered clouds.

beneath the sink

her father
would hide
his liquor beneath
the kitchen
sink. he'd
tuck a neat
pint or two
of jim beam,
or old crow
safely below,
between the
musty shadows
of wet pipes
and buckets,
grey rags.
and when he
decided to
tip one towards
his dry lips
you knew. he
was either
singing or
there was crying
in the other
room where a
hole was in
the wall.

the bathroom floor

there is no
such thing as sin
she says
while scrubbing
the bathroom
floor with
a toothbrush.
her knees
are rubbed
red and raw,
her hands are
pink and swollen
from the work.
i can't get
these floors
clean, she
says to me and
looks up.
i need help.

the fire

everyone gathers
for a fire
to see the roof
in flames,
the windows
shattered
from the heat.
they stand back
holding their
breath,
shaking their
heads, better
them, than me.

silence

you argue
silently
with the way
the sun
has set,
how the moon
just appears
in the absence
of light.
you bicker
with the wind
and how it
bellows
in the hollow
darkness of
trees.
and when
rain falls
you hold a
grudge against
the cold
puddles,
grumbling
to no one
your feelings.

clarity

i waste no
time on
that one.
a year past.
enough
blue hours
spent. i want
my money
back.
i want a refund
on false
love, on goods
undelivered.
the clarity
of time
and distance
is as clean
and as clear
as a cold
glass of water
on a bright
starlit night.

the gate

the unhinged gate
in disrepair,
leaning
on it's white
trimmed shoulder
with peeling
paint, a rusted
bolt that
neither slides
or closes
one in or out,
and the thick
grass too
has no memory
as to who
has come and gone.
that worn
path no longer
there, the collected
stones, once
playful seats
now cold
and overgrown.

the apple queen

i was getting
dangerously low
on apple butter
so i made the trip
up to berkley
springs west
virginia for the
annual autumn
apple butter
fesitval. i wasn't
disappointed
in the least.
i have enough
apple butter stocked
away in my cupboard
to get me through
the winter and
into spring, and on
the bonus side of
the trip, i fell
in love with the
apple butter festival
queen who was riding
on a float to resemble
a butter knife and
a plate. we fell in
love after the parade
at a local saloon
where they were serving
hard apple cider.
i feel like this time,
this is the real deal.
i just love her apples.
i could bob all night
for apples like hers.

that new car smell

my new car salesman
mohammed,
smiles, adjusts
his tie and says,
i can get you
that car, but black
is hard to find.
you have no idea
how rare a black
car is these days.
i look out the window
of the showroom,
sliding forward
in my plastic chair,
sipping from a styro
foam cup of cold
coffee, and stare out
at the highway
where every other
car is black. you're
going to need wheels
on this car right?
the salesman asks
me, shaking his head
while his hand moves
around his calculator.
i can only give you
twelve dollars for
your old car. sorry,
but it's used, and
i see that someone
sat in the back seat
once and put gum
into the ashtray.
smells like perfume
back there too. he
looks at me and i
shake my head. dunno,
i say. no clue
about that. only
twelve dollars, i ask
him. i can talk to
my manager and see what
we can do if you are
willing to buy today,
he says. do we have
a deal?

park clean up day

it was unfortunate
that the park clean
up day coincided
with the deer management
hunt with cross bows
by local amateur
hunters positioned
high up in the trees,
oh and halloween.
those picking up
the littered
debris of bottles
and bags, cartons
and wrappers should
never have been
wearing their costumes
with antlers and
fuzzy bear suits.

less

you carry less
of yourself
now that there
is grey in your
hair and your
step is slower.
so much that was
so important
is over.
the weight of
future years
is gone. you
think in terms
of the last
time you'll buy
this, or that,
or go here, or
go there. but you
like the feeling
of less. there
is no sadness
in this age.
you are almost
off the ground
with the thought
of it. almost.

still angels

the children
tethered together
by nannies along
the sidewalk at
midday. uniformed
and small, their
legs just touching
the ground, still
angels, still
the best of what
all of us could be
given the chance
to stay so young.

the path

as you roll smoothly
through the darkened
woods, seeing the still
shadows of grey deer
on the unsafe edges,
and swift foxes like
whispers weaving
through the brush, you
remember much of
what you've forgotten.
how things change
and yet remain
the same on this old
path and off it,
with each toss
and turn of a new season.

the winning ticket

you win
the lottery
just ten million.
but you vow
that it won't
change your life.
but it's too
late as you lie
in the doctor's
office getting
botox injections
into the furrows
of your brow
and fat sucked out
of your pendulous
belly. a hair weave
is not out of
the question now.
as is that new
mercedes. baby
seal black
with leather
and all
the trimmings.
maybe a driver
too wearing a cap.
it's only seven
million after taxes,
so you realize
that you need
to go slow,
but you are not
afraid to buy
grey goose by
the gallon now,
or fresh crabs
by the bushel. caviar
by the case.
pfffft, money,
you say to
your new friends,
no problem as you
fly everyone to
vegas for a weekend.
you are stunned
and pleased at how
women have suddenly
recognized your charm
and wit and good
looks, what took
them so long?
you change your
number immediately
because your mother
keeps calling about
something and move
into a condo
overlooking
the city. it has
it's own elevator.
you've always wanted
one of those. you
get unlimited texting
and the last three
remaining channels
on your cable plan
that you don't
yet have. you cancel
your match dot com
subscription
and join millionaire
match. by the end of
the month you think
back on the old you,
the poor you,
working for a living,
an old car, an
old girlfriend,
eating peanut butter
sandwiches while
standing at the sink
late at night,
worn shoes on your
feet and drinking
smirinoff. it's all
good now, but no,
you haven't changed
a bit. you are still
you and you have
plenty of people that
will happily agree
with you. things have
changed, but
you haven't.

rock creek parkway

it winds and dips,
it's rough
and edged deep
with ruts of
whatever they
use to mill
the old pavement.
the construction
goes on forever
with do not
enter signs
and barrel after
orange striped
barrel lining
the beaten path
with nets to keep
the runners
and the bikers
off to the side.
it is a blind
series of
nothing but s's,
moving along
beneath the kennedy
center, along
the sun pink river
and into the park
where a black
canopy of trees
enfolds you
in old arms,
below the stone
bridges,
up, up towards
mass ave,
connecticut ave,
onto the zoo
and beach drive.
out onto calvert
street where
you thank God
once more that
you've made
it out alive.

let's go out instead

your smoke alarm
signals you from
your nap that dinner
is ready. the house
is full of
smoke and your
eyes are watering,
you choke a little
and clear your
throat. you've
been out for over
an hour, after
drinking a half
a bottle of wine,
sleeping
soundly while
the pot roast
simmered and then
caught fire
in the oven. but
you like it that
way, burnt and
crispy. of course
the potatoes
and carrots that
you so carefully
cut up are shriveled
and black. your
date arrives before
you can order chinese
over the phone.
you look through
the peep hole and
admire the little
black dress she is
wearing, and that
her hair is done
up nicely. you tell
her to wait
as you put the fire
out and change from
your pajamas into
something clean
and decent. you yell
through the closed
door. let's go
out to dinner, okay?
she peeks into
the window and nods
yes.