extended warranty

the warranty
only covers the things that will
never happen.
so goes insurance,
and whatever
extra
coverage they want to sell
on anything you
buy.
small drips of water
creating an ocean
of wealth, rarely
dipped into
to douse the flames
of your broken
machine or body.

extended warranty

the warranty
only covers the things that will
never happen.
so goes insurance,
and whatever
extra
coverage they want to sell
on anything you
buy.
small drips of water
creating an ocean
of wealth, rarely
dipped into
to douse the flames
of your broken
machine or body.

protest

funny
how we warm up to death
in
the papers,
on the news,
giving us reason
to shout
and march, and then disperse
back
to our own
nests, bolting the door.
our protest
goes cold so quickly
these days.
a stale same
dish
gone hard in a pot,
besides another pot,
on the stove.

protest

funny
how we warm up to death
in
the papers,
on the news,
giving us reason
to shout
and march, and then disperse
back
to our own
nests, bolting the door.
our protest
goes cold so quickly
these days.
a stale same
dish
gone hard in a pot,
besides another pot,
on the stove.

a slice of cake

a slice of cake
would be nice right about
now.
home made.
on a round white plate.
a cold glass
of milk.
a fork, a knife,
a napkin.
and you beside me
with powder
on your nose,
icing on your apron.

a slice of cake

a slice of cake
would be nice right about
now.
home made.
on a round white plate.
a cold glass
of milk.
a fork, a knife,
a napkin.
and you beside me
with powder
on your nose,
icing on your apron.

stop being you

it's not the money
it's the principle of the thing
I say
with a forceful
strident voice, one foot
on the proverbial
self righteous
soap box.
how dare they, the nerve,
the audacity
the outrage of their
callous behavior. who do
these people think they are?
but I settle down soon,
unable to keep up the vigor
of my position.
I calm down and slip
into a nice quiet
reflective place
after a drink
or two. I watch as
the sun slips under
the veil
of a summer black sky
set with diamonds,
without even the thinnest
of moons. how quickly the world
loses its power
over you
when you stop being you.

a change of course

you think about adding
muscle
to your frame,
maybe pump up those biceps,
work on the abs,
then go to the beach
after getting
a spray on tan.
but it's a lot of work.
so you buy an
ice cream instead
and put on a long
sleeve shirt,
grab a book and go
sit in the shade
at the park.

a change of course

you think about adding
muscle
to your frame,
maybe pump up those biceps,
work on the abs,
then go to the beach
after getting
a spray on tan.
but it's a lot of work.
so you buy an
ice cream instead
and put on a long
sleeve shirt,
grab a book and go
sit in the shade
at the park.

the rich uncle

the rich uncle died
on his boat in florida,
leaving you nothing, why would
he?
but as a child
you remember him
arriving in his white Cadillac
and white
suit from Philly
to visit.
he thought the front of your
mother's house
must be the back.
what with the chain
linked fence and dog
tied to a tree.
he gave everyone a five dollar
bill
at each visit. patting you
on the head
with a look of disdain
and sorrow.
he never stayed over
or sat in a chair,
but he asked where the liquor
store was
so he could load up
his trunk with whiskey,
the taxes being lower here.

the crowded trail

while riding my
bike
through the woods on the paved
path,
I see snakes
that I must swerve
to avoid,
foxes darting
through the brush,
the startled
frozen poses
of deer.
raccoons hissing,
eating
something
dead on the side
of the trail.
there is the shadowed
swoop of owls
holding mice
in their claws.
I swallow gnats along
the way,
wiping them out of
my eyes and ears,
but the hardest part
of the ride
is people.
hand in hand, strollers
and dogs,
plugged in to phones
and music
not knowing that your
pedaling near.

the magic rock

there is no such
thing
as a warranty, i discover
when
the air conditioner
breaks down
in my new truck.
you must have done something
to it,
the mechanic says,
or maybe a magic
rock found it's way through
the grille
and through
the engine
to locate the condenser
and puncture it,
thus letting out all the Freon.
yeah.
and people get
pregnant from sitting
on toilet seats
I say, not amused
at the twelve hundred
dollar bill.

some mornings

some mornings are better
than others.
some
evenings too.
hard to know which
spot
you're going to land on.
something
pushes you forward,
a roll of the dice.
strange enthusiasm,
familiar
boredom.

some mornings

some mornings are better
than others.
some
evenings too.
hard to know which
spot
you're going to land on.
something
pushes you forward,
a roll of the dice.
strange enthusiasm,
familiar
boredom.

leopard print

her one closet
held everything that was of
a leopard print.
shoes and skirts,
blouses,
hats.
undergarments.
she would have wiped
out the entire
leopard
population
if they were real,
but they weren't.
it helped
to bring out the animal
in you though.

leopard print

her one closet
held everything that was of
a leopard print.
shoes and skirts,
blouses,
hats.
undergarments.
she would have wiped
out the entire
leopard
population
if they were real,
but they weren't.
it helped
to bring out the animal
in you though.

direction

a gaggle
of black birds fly across
the blue
patch
of sky
as one.
how do they know which
way
to steer
their wings
then land. how do we
know
these things
as well.

coffee talk

the man who approaches me
in the coffee shop
as I grumble to myself about
there being no half and half
on the counter
asks me what my politics are.
you aren't for trump are you,
he says, sizing me up, as
I step away and put the empty
container on the counter.
huh, I say. what?
you want to build a wall,
he says. who will mow your
lawns, watch your children,
clean your rooms, paint
your houses. huh? I say again,
looking more deeply into his
eyes to see if he's as dangerously
crazy as he's beginning to sound.
I paint houses, I tell him. so
I guess i'll do that.
finally getting the new
cold canister of half and half, i pour
it and stir sugar into my coffee,
i secure the lid, then take a sip.
the man hasn't gone away.
he's closer. in my face.
you want trump, he asks again.
no, I tell him, actually I
don't like either one of those
weasels. so my answer is no.
I have post traumatic syndrome,
he says. I fight for your
country and you want to kick
me out. why is that?
listen, he says loudly,
come over here and sit
down with me. let's discuss
this. ummm. no. I have to go
to work I tell him. I have this
thing called a job.
but it's been lovely talking
with you. good luck with
everything, maybe have those
meds adjusted.

confrontation

the one shoe.
black. my favorite
that can be worn with
anything,
with laces
lies under the bed,
still in tact.
where the other one is
I have no idea.
I ask the dog
who is curled on a pillow
on the bed,
and see a remnant
of leather
hanging from his mouth.
he shrugs
with that what look.
I have no idea what
you're talking about
his calm body language says.
I can't have
a conversation
with him about
these things, i'm not
good with confrontation,
so I throw
him the other shoe
too.

confrontation

the one shoe.
black. my favorite
that can be worn with
anything,
with laces
lies under the bed,
still in tact.
where the other one is
I have no idea.
I ask the dog
who is curled on a pillow
on the bed,
and see a remnant
of leather
hanging from his mouth.
he shrugs
with that what look.
I have no idea what
you're talking about
his calm body language says.
I can't have
a conversation
with him about
these things, i'm not
good with confrontation,
so I throw
him the other shoe
too.

her new soul mate

I think I found my soul mate
again,
betty tells
me over cocktails
and calamari
at the local pub.
oh, do tell, I say to her,
dipping
a fried rubbery fish like
gasket
into a bowl of hot
sauce.
no kids, no ex wives.
he has a trust fund,
and lives on a boat.
wow.
terrific, I tell her
licking the tips
of my fingers
then guzzling my drink.
what else?
well. he's a little bit
older than me.
by how much.
thirty years.
and.
and what?
and he has a serious heart
condition.
he could go at any
time.
show me the ring, I say
to her looking across
the table.
it's a diamond the size
of a small
ice cube. I blink my eyes,
shaking my head.
wowza.
we have a winner. I say,
then we clink glasses.

the darkness

he can hardly see
but
he still knows where the black
olives
are on the shelf,
feeling his way around,
counting steps up
aisle six,
just down from the dill
pickles.
the pork chops too,
not far
from fish and chicken,
the frozen foods, his hand
reaching into
the cold bin
to feel the weight,
if the bone is in.
we adapt
to near blindness
as we do to all
darkness that comes
in time.

behind the wheel

is the way
some people drive a reflection on
where they
are in a spiritual
sense,
is it an indication
of distress
or chaos in their lives.
I think so.
the speed
and recklessness, the impatience,
the anger
displayed
continues when they
exit
from behind the wheel,
as it does
before the key turns.

holding a baby

the person holding the baby
in the photograph
is mildly happy,
a wide grimace showing teeth
stained with
lipstick.
an aunt perhaps,
or friend who stopped by
to see the small child,
finally months
after the well announced birth.
her hands are wrapped
around the baby's mid section,
holding it away,
as if he or she
might be wet,
or worse.
I suspect a boy, the clue
being the blue
socks
and bow tie.
a small suit that
predicts
what might lie ahead
and a look of annoyance
on his round face.

holding a baby

the person holding the baby
in the photograph
is mildly happy,
a wide grimace showing teeth
stained with
lipstick.
an aunt perhaps,
or friend who stopped by
to see the small child,
finally months
after the well announced birth.
her hands are wrapped
around the baby's mid section,
holding it away,
as if he or she
might be wet,
or worse.
I suspect a boy, the clue
being the blue
socks
and bow tie.
a small suit that
predicts
what might lie ahead
and a look of annoyance
on his round face.

a sinkable world

a sinkable world
of dying things.
rebirth is harder than it looks.
see the ancient
pyramids
as an example,
full of things they
believe they'll need
in the next world.
don't bring me back as a dog,
or fish,
a cricket,
or bird on a wire.
let's call it a day
with this one life.

a sinkable world

a sinkable world
of dying things.
rebirth is harder than it looks.
see the ancient
pyramids
as an example,
full of things they
believe they'll need
in the next world.
don't bring me back as a dog,
or fish,
a cricket,
or bird on a wire.
let's call it a day
with this one life.

the soft bed

hand in hand
new lovers
walk towards the river,
discussing
nothing
of great importance.
those talks will come
in time, but for now it's
just this.
complements and kisses,
tender touches,
a soft bed
to build upon.

the soft bed

hand in hand
new lovers
walk towards the river,
discussing
nothing
of great importance.
those talks will come
in time, but for now it's
just this.
complements and kisses,
tender touches,
a soft bed
to build upon.

rescuing the past

each year I see
the woman who digs
walking
up king street in her blue dress,
less blue
with time.
her boots, still black,
but muddied,
a heavy sack
upon her shoulder.
she's bent more
now than ever, but plodding
along towards
the next yard
to unearth a shard of glass,
a cup,
a broken saucer,
each thrown away in another
century as
trash. on her knees she'll
unbury
with brush and file,
with a shovel spoon
and a keen eye for rescuing
what used to be,
the past.

rescuing the past

each year I see
the woman who digs
walking
up king street in her blue dress,
less blue
with time.
her boots, still black,
but muddied,
a heavy sack
upon her shoulder.
she's bent more
now than ever, but plodding
along towards
the next yard
to unearth a shard of glass,
a cup,
a broken saucer,
each thrown away in another
century as
trash. on her knees she'll
unbury
with brush and file,
with a shovel spoon
and a keen eye for rescuing
what used to be,
the past.

the candle

the candle, solid
and white,
a hint of false
vanilla,
burns
to one side. filling the dish
with wax.
there is an unevenness
to the burn,
despite
being set flat
upon the table.
no wind
moves the flame.
just a steady hot drip
until a side
is gone.
it was a mistake
to light it in the first
place
where it rested
for so long,
some loves
are best left alone.

the slow rain

the slow rain
falls
heavy on the trees.
fills
the sleeve of a stream
tinted
green.
we can wile away this day
with nothing.
just rain,
the windows open,
a long stretch of hours
before us.
put some van Morrison on,
his sweet
sadness will put
a bow on it.

the slow rain

the slow rain
falls
heavy on the trees.
fills
the sleeve of a stream
tinted
green.
we can wile away this day
with nothing.
just rain,
the windows open,
a long stretch of hours
before us.
put some van Morrison on,
his sweet
sadness will put
a bow on it.

your finger is over there

I think one of
your fingers is over
there, under the grille,
I tell the man wearing
the red white
and blue flag underpants
after he
lights
a cherry bomb
that went off in his hand.
grab some ice
and your finger
and go over to the tent
I tell him.
not the hot dog tent,
the other one with the red cross
on the top.
they're sewing fingers
and thumbs back
over there.
he pours some jack daniels
onto the bleeding
wound,
and says, thanks man,
happy fourth.
go USA.

your finger is over there

I think one of
your fingers is over
there, under the grille,
I tell the man wearing
the red white
and blue flag underpants
after he
lights
a cherry bomb
that went off in his hand.
grab some ice
and your finger
and go over to the tent
I tell him.
not the hot dog tent,
the other one with the red cross
on the top.
they're sewing fingers
and thumbs back
over there.
he pours some jack daniels
onto the bleeding
wound,
and says, thanks man,
happy fourth.
go USA.

the human torch

one year
at the carnival up the road
where
the shopping mall
used to be
they had a fireworks display.
we sat on the hill,
my son and I,
eating cotton
candy
and watched.
the small man who lit the fuses
ran to each rocket
with his lighter,
bent over,
his long
hair tied back into
a pony tail.
at some point he caught
fire,
but kept running to each
new rocket
sending it swirling into
the air
where it exploded with a loud
boom
and a spray of flowered sparks.
finally,
people from the crowd
knocked the man
to the ground
and rolled him in blankets
until the fire
was put out.
the ambulance came and there
was a quiet murmur
throughout the crowd.
my son turned to me
as they took the burned man
away and said,
I guess that's it for this year,
dad.

after seeing heaven

they bring
the heart back to life
by
thumping
on his chest,
breathing air into his
lungs,
they zap him
with electricity,
say a prayer,
stand back
and wait.
finally his eyes open
and asks,
what did you do that for?

after seeing heaven

they bring
the heart back to life
by
thumping
on his chest,
breathing air into his
lungs,
they zap him
with electricity,
say a prayer,
stand back
and wait.
finally his eyes open
and asks,
what did you do that for?

a tree fell

a tree fell in
the woods
but no one heard it
because someone's
wife
kept talking.

namaste

rarely did she use
her yoga meditations while driving
home from class,
still in her yoga pants
and smelling
of incense,
instead
she floored the pedal
and ran every
yellow light as it turned
red.
she zig zagged
across the white lines,
the yellow lines,
the dotted lines,
trying hard
to get ahead.
sometimes she cursed
the slower cars, the pedestrians
with their casual gait.
she waved a stiff finger
at them while
speeding by, but always
ending a tirade with
Namaste.

namaste

rarely did she use
her yoga meditations while driving
home from class,
still in her yoga pants
and smelling
of incense,
instead
she floored the pedal
and ran every
yellow light as it turned
red.
she zig zagged
across the white lines,
the yellow lines,
the dotted lines,
trying hard
to get ahead.
sometimes she cursed
the slower cars, the pedestrians
with their casual gait.
she waved a stiff finger
at them while
speeding by, but always
ending a tirade with
Namaste.

the new religion

she holds up two
luscious red tomatoes, fat
and juicy, right of the vine,
you can smell
that real tomato smell
when she dips one towards
your nose at the farmers market.
she's an evangelist for
organic fruit and vegetables,
standing on a soap box
preaching soil and water,
seeds and love.
get down on your knees
brothers and sisters and dig the earth.
come to the church of organic
farming. throw down your chemicals,
your sprays, your anti biotics.
sin no more with your
hybrid corn, your altered
grains, your fattened cows
and chickens.
let those chickens roam free
my troubled friends.
for just five dollars, one
five dollar bill
you too can taste the salvation
of a home grown
hot house tomato. step right up
and taste the glory,
let the juices dribble down your chins.
we'll wait for you as you rise
from your seats and come forward.
don't be shy. sin no more with
your store bought demonic produce.
can I get an amen?
cash, credit or checks are welcome.

the art of giving

sometimes i
give a dollar or two, even
a five
to the man or woman
standing on
the corner with a sign
saying god bless,
veteran,
homeless and bereft.
rarely does it say bereft,
but it rhymed
so i'm using that word.
occasionally
they are limping, or
feigning a limp,
but neatly clothed,
and well coiffed.
again, coiffed is used here
only because
it's the first word
that came into my mind.
so I give
a dollar or two, but not
always.
sometimes i'm feeling a
little perturbed
and silently say get a job
you bum. keeping the windows
rolled up
while I drink my
five dollar cup of coffee.
life is hard for everyone
I think,
then my catholic guilt
kicks in
and i make a vow
to give
to the next one.

the cleopatra sister

don't use up
all the hot water I yelled
to my sister
as she
entered the bathroom
on the second
floor
with towels and magazines,
a drink,
the phone, cord
under the door.
it was the only bathroom
in the house
and once she got in there,
there was
no getting her
out.
don't worry about it, she'd
yell back,
locking the door
behind her.
go use the hose in the back yard,
she'd say,
tossing out a bar of
soap, or just wait your turn.
sometimes
the other brothers
and sisters would
come up
the stairs
and see you sitting
there on the top step.
she's in there,
i'd say.
it's going to be a while.

party prep

bring a pie
he tells me on the phone.
cherry
or blueberry. one from the berry family.
vanilla ice cream too.
what else, I ask him.
some fireworks.
whatever you like. sparklers,
roman candles.
rockets.
we have fire crackers
and cherry bombs,
so don't bring those.
oh, and maybe a watermelon,
with seeds,
we might have a seed
spitting contest
later.
we have about a hundred or so
hot dogs,
beef franks.
and mustard, so that's covered.
one more thing.
a keg of beer.
better make it two kegs.
you know how people like
to drink. so that's it,
see you at one.
i'm filling the pool up now.

the wall between us

envy has
never crossed my mind.
I have
enough and need very
little to live
and be happy on.
what you have is yours,
what I have
is mine.
I covet nothing
that you possess.
this fence, this wall
between us
is just for show.
no need to cross the line.

the wall between us

envy has
never crossed my mind.
I have
enough and need very
little to live
and be happy on.
what you have is yours,
what I have
is mine.
I covet nothing
that you possess.
this fence, this wall
between us
is just for show.
no need to cross the line.

storming the castle

we're going to storm the castle
my friend
Octavius says to me one morning
as he tightens up his
leather sandals
and lights a torch with
a bic lighter.
we're tired of low wages
and stale bread,
taxes. my thatched hut
is crawling with vermin.
my cable bill is killing me.
come on man, grab a torch
and your good axe and let's go.
what about coffee, did you
have coffee yet?
I was thinking of taking a walk
after I get coffee and a multi-grain
bagel. maybe down
by the lake.
no, we need everyone.
we've had it with this king.
you can get coffee later,
in fact i'll buy you lunch,
if we don't die when they pour
cauldrons of boiling oil
off the towers like they did
last year.
what about the archers?
I still have scars all over
me from the last time
we tried this.
I have Neosporin. put on your
thick sweatshirt that you got
in Nantucket last summer.
no arrows can get through that,
unless of course they use those
pesky flaming arrows.
come on.
okay, okay...let me sharpen my
axe. I just need a quick bowl
of cereal and to walk the dog.
go on ahead, i'll be there. promise.
front door where the moat is?
yup. okay. see you in a few.

storming the castle

we're going to storm the castle
my friend
Octavius says to me one morning
as he tightens up his
leather sandals
and lights a torch with
a bic lighter.
we're tired of low wages
and stale bread,
taxes. my thatched hut
is crawling with vermin.
my cable bill is killing me.
come on man, grab a torch
and your good axe and let's go.
what about coffee, did you
have coffee yet?
I was thinking of taking a walk
after I get coffee and a multi-grain
bagel. maybe down
by the lake.
no, we need everyone.
we've had it with this king.
you can get coffee later,
in fact i'll buy you lunch,
if we don't die when they pour
cauldrons of boiling oil
off the towers like they did
last year.
what about the archers?
I still have scars all over
me from the last time
we tried this.
I have Neosporin. put on your
thick sweatshirt that you got
in Nantucket last summer.
no arrows can get through that,
unless of course they use those
pesky flaming arrows.
come on.
okay, okay...let me sharpen my
axe. I just need a quick bowl
of cereal and to walk the dog.
go on ahead, i'll be there. promise.
front door where the moat is?
yup. okay. see you in a few.

she might be dead

I suspect
that the lady down the street,
four doors
down
from me, may have passed on
to the next life.
or perhaps
ran out of energy
or ink
with which to post a note
on my door
telling me not to put
my trash out
early.
I haven't seen her
blue car
in weeks, the one with
the coexist bumper sticker.
i've seen burly workmen
with white
shirts and bald heads
coming and going
from her house.
I can't say that I miss her,
but I wish her all
the best wherever she might
be and not
burdened by
the likes of my early trash
and me.

good books and bad

some books, you savor,
some you throw across the room
and say
I can't read this junk.
others hold
the door from swinging shut,
or balance
a table
on the tilted floor,
a thin
copy of a poet you don't like.
some books
are within reach, ready
to be read more.
others
collect dust, put either
high or low,
the hardest to reach.
your favorites are kept
nearby,
at arms length
in a moments notice.
those books you savor.

rare days

it was a mystery coming
home from
school as a kid.
what lay ahead,
unknown.
the door never being locked,
sometimes
not a soul around,
the dog
off his leash
on the porch.
no notes. no messages
left
to be found
explaining
where everyone had gone,
who knew.
but you could push a chair
up to the counter,
climb
up for a dish
or cup.
fill it with milk.
find the bread and construct
a sandwich
with whatever
you could find.
you'd turn on the tv,
and sit
back,
a calm in the storm,
your future
being planned and practiced,
honed.

rare days

it was a mystery coming
home from
school as a kid.
what lay ahead,
unknown.
the door never being locked,
sometimes
not a soul around,
the dog
off his leash
on the porch.
no notes. no messages
left
to be found
explaining
where everyone had gone,
who knew.
but you could push a chair
up to the counter,
climb
up for a dish
or cup.
fill it with milk.
find the bread and construct
a sandwich
with whatever
you could find.
you'd turn on the tv,
and sit
back,
a calm in the storm,
your future
being planned and practiced,
honed.

the office lunch

you decide to take
the office out to lunch after
a grueling
day.
this means you pull up
to a drive
through window
and order a number four,
crispy with a large
drink.
you pull over and let
the air conditioning run,
as you eat,
discussing in your
mind
the progress of the year,
what's next.
what jobs need to be done.
the office wants to discuss
a raise,
a bonus,
retirement, but you'll have
none of it,
telling them
to be happy with the day
and to enjoy
the lunch.

the office lunch

you decide to take
the office out to lunch after
a grueling
day.
this means you pull up
to a drive
through window
and order a number four,
crispy with a large
drink.
you pull over and let
the air conditioning run,
as you eat,
discussing in your
mind
the progress of the year,
what's next.
what jobs need to be done.
the office wants to discuss
a raise,
a bonus,
retirement, but you'll have
none of it,
telling them
to be happy with the day
and to enjoy
the lunch.

where to

they don't know,
not everything, scientists,
theories persist, then
change
with a new found shard
of bone,
or orb
beyond the sun.
it's a guessing game.
as they wrestle
with the priests,
each with
his own claim as to why
or how
we came to be
and where we go,
when we leave.

the killing

the rabid dog
limped onto the street,
a froth upon his jowls,
sending us
to our porches
while our mothers screamed.
the fathers came out
with their guns.
how armed
the neighborhood was
with rifles
and snub nose 38's,
revolvers
and shotguns.
some were pulled from
waistbands, or holsters,
taking a break
from waxing their long
cars in the sun,
while others
dug into the closet
to spin bullets
into the chambers.
the men seemed anxious
to shoot something,
finally.

the killing

the rabid dog
limped onto the street,
a froth upon his jowls,
sending us
to our porches
while our mothers screamed.
the fathers came out
with their guns.
how armed
the neighborhood was
with rifles
and snub nose 38's,
revolvers
and shotguns.
some were pulled from
waistbands, or holsters,
taking a break
from waxing their long
cars in the sun,
while others
dug into the closet
to spin bullets
into the chambers.
the men seemed anxious
to shoot something,
finally.

captured beauty

what is it about beauty
that we run,
even as a child, with a jar
to capture
a firefly in the summer
night
as it floats mysteriously
slow enough
to be captured.
even beauty wants
to be caught.
the framed art,
the gem under glass,
the image coaxed into
a camera.
a poem on a page.
the wedding dress.

captured beauty

what is it about beauty
that we run,
even as a child, with a jar
to capture
a firefly in the summer
night
as it floats mysteriously
slow enough
to be captured.
even beauty wants
to be caught.
the framed art,
the gem under glass,
the image coaxed into
a camera.
a poem on a page.
the wedding dress.

painting by numbers

my grandmother
when she would visit us
from boston,
while my mother lay in a hospital
having another baby,
would buy us paint by numbers
kits
to keeps us quiet.
geese flying
over swamps, churches,
that sort of thing.
oil paints
with thinners
and linseed oils,
brushes, rags.
it's a wonder we didn't
set the house on
fire as she hung
over our work with a
Winston
hanging from her lips.
I hate those kennedys
she always managed to
fit into a conversation,
which wasn't really
a conversation, it was
just her talking,
staring at the tv
and yelling at us to keep
the paint between
the lines.
later, after the paintings
had dried
she would line them up
on a window sill
to see who had done
the best job, giving that child,
my older brother
who had my father's name,
a dollar and the rest
of us nothing.

i don't think she really cares about me

I wonder if my new
doctor
really cares about me.
she doesn't call or email,
or text.
nothing.
I haven't received a notice
to have
some mid life
testing done
in a month. no bags
to put my
personal
internal belongings into
and send
to the lab.
I could be dead for a week
and she wouldn't
know.
maybe I should call
her and tell her i'm okay
except for the allergy
thing, which
she has no clue whatsoever
with which
to solve.

that's enough

I have no bling
to speak of. as a child
I had rings
and watches, all cheap
from cracker jack
boxes, even a chain,
which was really a dog
collar,
in case
a gang fight
broke out
between the ruffians
in hillcrest heights.
never used,
nor was the pocket knife,
rusted closed,
only needed
to cut fishing line
when a turtle
or eel
took the bait, or to carve
my initials
into a picnic table.
the only shiny thing
I have these days is you.
that's enough.

the left hand

your left is weaker
than
your right hand.
which holds true
for the arm when
throwing
a ball. how awkward
and untaught.
it's just the way it is.
being pushed
by a parent
settling the spoon
or fork between
your fingers and thumb.
the pencil too
to write or draw
or play an instrument
with the same.
how sad it is for the left
to be
used so little.
holding or catching things
as a last resort.

the left hand

your left is weaker
than
your right hand.
which holds true
for the arm when
throwing
a ball. how awkward
and untaught.
it's just the way it is.
being pushed
by a parent
settling the spoon
or fork between
your fingers and thumb.
the pencil too
to write or draw
or play an instrument
with the same.
how sad it is for the left
to be
used so little.
holding or catching things
as a last resort.

the white shag rug

she had rug
burns on
her spine, you had them
on your knees.
they took forever to heal
long after
the thrill had
gone and you both met
someone else.
love hurts.

what now

it's the first year that my
father
doesn't have a garden.
no tomatoes, or peppers.
no corn, or lettuce
growing in the small patch
of dirt outside his window,
next to the air conditioner
unit.
I can't see he says,
to me. I don't know if
things are ripe. or if
they need water, or what.
it's all blurry.
we both stare out at the
squared patch of unturned
soil. the green wire fence
bent by rabbits,
who also wonder, what now.

what year was that?

because she has little or no
memory of the past
after ten thousand
bong hits,
I can say anything to her,
make up any story,
saying things like
remember the time
we sky dived into
the grand canyon?
she scratches her head,
as she rolls another joint
and nods, pushing
back her hair, grey at
the roots.
yeah, sure she says.
I remember that. yeah,
that was fun.
what year was that?

what year was that?

because she has little or no
memory of the past
after ten thousand
bong hits,
I can say anything to her,
make up any story,
saying things like
remember the time
we sky dived into
the grand canyon?
she scratches her head,
as she rolls another joint
and nods, pushing
back her hair, grey at
the roots.
yeah, sure she says.
I remember that. yeah,
that was fun.
what year was that?

t-bone

I don't eat meat.
or wear fur, or leave
a carbon
foot print
anywhere that I can.
I recycle.
separating the plastic
from the metal,
the paper
from
the glass.
I like fish though,
she says,
moving the lettuce
around on her plate,
pausing, waiting for
me to finish gnawing
on the bone
of my T-bone
steak.

t-bone

I don't eat meat.
or wear fur, or leave
a carbon
foot print
anywhere that I can.
I recycle.
separating the plastic
from the metal,
the paper
from
the glass.
I like fish though,
she says,
moving the lettuce
around on her plate,
pausing, waiting for
me to finish gnawing
on the bone
of my T-bone
steak.

i saw it on tv

we'd like our ten foot ceiling
wallpapered the woman tells me,
hands on her
hips, swiveling on high heels,
pointing
with sharp red nails.
the whole ceiling.
I saw it on a tv show.
two different papers, stripes,
but all meeting
at a point in the middle.
how much?
how much do you have, I tell
her.

freed from captivity

in or out of jail
makes
no difference to my friend
jake
the snake.
he glides through life
on a beer
coaster.
one beer leading to another
and another
until he wraps
his car
around a pole
or a parked car.
his wrists are calloused
from
handcuffs.
a small pony tail swings
from
the back of his fifty
seven year old head
holding hardly
a single grey hair.
he has no worries.
on bail he goes the fountain
to see his
friends who
hug him and slap his back,
after being
freed
once more.

self employed

she flies
all over the country.
taking
her business self along
with her
notepads and tablets,
phones
and laptops.
she's doing things I have
no idea
as to what they are.
she's probably in a meeting
at this very moment,
saying things
that other people will
write down
and take notice.
right now
i'm in a chair with a towel
around me,
wet from
the shower,
drinking instant coffee
and looking out
the window
as a moving truck unloads
a broken futon.
the new neighbors have awful
taste
in furniture.

hot donuts

your flattery
has earned you a box of donuts.
here.
they are warm,
still gooey and hot,
boxed before they even
hit the shelf.
I picked out all your favorites,
fancy to plain,
saying to the lady
in pink, behind the wide
counter,
and one of those, and one
of those,
two of those, etc.
the affection is mutual.
enjoy.

hot donuts

your flattery
has earned you a box of donuts.
here.
they are warm,
still gooey and hot,
boxed before they even
hit the shelf.
I picked out all your favorites,
fancy to plain,
saying to the lady
in pink, behind the wide
counter,
and one of those, and one
of those,
two of those, etc.
the affection is mutual.
enjoy.

eight chain linked fences

your sister
holds a grudge against your father
for being born
small and premature.
it's fifty years
old, the grudge, but not stale,
or tattered
by the years.
instead she's kept it fresh
and new
with each retelling.
it's a strange tale
of how your mother hopped
eight chain
linked fences to go slap
a woman
your father had been seeing
on the sly.
at the time your mother was
carrying your sister
for six months,
still
in the womb, but yelling,
i'm sure even then
at the injustices of the world,
all aimed at her.

a pack of luckys

who didn't smoke
back then. each with his
own brand,
his own style of stamping
a new pack
hard against his hand.
the strike of the match,
the inhale,
the rings they would blow,
at thirteen,
cagneys and bogarts
already
in their striped polo
shirts
in the shadows of
the playground
where bad girls would come
around.

a pack of luckys

who didn't smoke
back then. each with his
own brand,
his own style of stamping
a new pack
hard against his hand.
the strike of the match,
the inhale,
the rings they would blow,
at thirteen,
cagneys and bogarts
already
in their striped polo
shirts
in the shadows of
the playground
where bad girls would come
around.

your floor

all eyes are on the buttons,
each lit
with a number
above our heads.
no words are spoken.
it's early morning
there is nothing
new to be said.
good day, good morning.
each
exiting the box
as the door slides open
to go on their separate
ways.

your floor

all eyes are on the buttons,
each lit
with a number
above our heads.
no words are spoken.
it's early morning
there is nothing
new to be said.
good day, good morning.
each
exiting the box
as the door slides open
to go on their separate
ways.

what i want

I want a poem
to be
a clear cold glass
of water.
something that will
soothe
my parched soul,
tell me things in
a different way,
things I already
know.
I want it to be sparse
and to the point,
not full
of words beyond
my education.
I want to read it aloud,
then again,
letting it quench
my thirst.
I want a poem to wake
me up
to what is possible
when paper
meets a pen.

what i want

I want a poem
to be
a clear cold glass
of water.
something that will
soothe
my parched soul,
tell me things in
a different way,
things I already
know.
I want it to be sparse
and to the point,
not full
of words beyond
my education.
I want to read it aloud,
then again,
letting it quench
my thirst.
I want a poem to wake
me up
to what is possible
when paper
meets a pen.

the new rude

it's a new breed of rude.
no need
in saying hello
when passing by, or holding
a door.
letting someone
out before one goes in.
no need to signal
your turn,
or show kindness by
letting someone pass
before you.
it's okay to yell in
a crowded room and to
ignore,
stay on your phone,
staring deep into
its dark abyss as you cross
the road.
a thank you goes unsaid
these days,
for anything bought
in any store.

all this

everything is sinkable.
don't let
your life fool you for one
minute.
who hasn't
felt
the surge of the sea
sucking
them under, tasted the salt
water
in their lungs,
gasped for air,
too scared
to even pray as you sink
into the deep end
of disaster.
some holes are large
and you go fast,
while others are smaller,
letting you sink
slowly,
making you believe
that all this, all this
will last.

a closer heaven

the undead
who are us, don't understand
what lies
below
the surface.
some think it's upwards.
in the clouds.
but maybe it's nearer
than that.
heaven being just a kiss.
a moment underfoot.
ice cream.
kindness.
your mother's stew.
we make too much of what
death might
bring or not bring.
we take too little time
on what's
the right thing
to do here.

the next day

somehow you wake
up in Alaska
in an igloo. there is a small
woman beside
you cleaning fish.
she sees that you are awake
and comes over
to rub her nose
against yours.
she says something in a language
you've never heard
before.
her skin is brown, her hair
is black as oil.
she points to your
bear skin cape
and nods. you put it on
and look out
the rounded door of the ice
block you are in.
there is nothing but
white ice, white snow,
even the blue
sky seems determined
to be white.
a penguin walks by,
stopping to look a you.
he shrugs
and moves on. there are
no answers to your dreams.
there is only
the next day.

the waiting

if you wait long
enough
nothing will happen.
that love won't fall through
the roof.
that new job
won't appear.
you'll still be out of shape
and fat.
that book won't read itself.
a stray cat will not
suddenly
be in your lap.
the retirement homes
are full of people
that waited
too long for something
to happen.
something different that
would give
meaning
to their lives.
they wait for something
else now.

balance

the wheels
need to be balanced
in order
to get a smooth ride.
adjustments are in order.
a tap here,
a tap there, some weight
on the inside,
now air.
slow down
and take the corners
with care.

balance

the wheels
need to be balanced
in order
to get a smooth ride.
adjustments are in order.
a tap here,
a tap there, some weight
on the inside,
now air.
slow down
and take the corners
with care.

bring potatoes

sometimes I have
three or four red potatoes in the bin
for a year.
things grow
out of them,
potato like arms
and antlers, whiskers.
potatoes seem to last a long
time.
if I was ever going
to a take a long
trip somewhere, run away
from it all, without
taking much,
i'd bring some potatoes along.

bring potatoes

sometimes I have
three or four red potatoes in the bin
for a year.
things grow
out of them,
potato like arms
and antlers, whiskers.
potatoes seem to last a long
time.
if I was ever going
to a take a long
trip somewhere, run away
from it all, without
taking much,
i'd bring some potatoes along.

things happen

your neighbor,
two doors up,
a shaggy blonde with long
nails, who works at
the strip
club
is pregnant.
she says whoops,
when you see her out
in the parking lot
washing
her lexus
in a string bikini.
things happen, she says,
shrugging and
touching her belly
with both hands,
somehow explaining
the entire process
of continuing the species
with two
words.

things happen

your neighbor,
two doors up,
a shaggy blonde with long
nails, who works at
the strip
club
is pregnant.
she says whoops,
when you see her out
in the parking lot
washing
her lexus
in a string bikini.
things happen, she says,
shrugging and
touching her belly
with both hands,
somehow explaining
the entire process
of continuing the species
with two
words.

the clean house

it's a clean house.
swept
and wiped, dusted and mopped.
the mirrors
sparkle,
the counters shine.
hardly a crumb
is found.
books along the shelf,
a place for everything,
everything
in its place.
it's not a house I can
live in
or visit for very long.
i'll bring it
to its knees
with the likes of me.

without words

I could listen
all night to music without words.
just strings
and woodwinds,
cellos and kettle drums.
the harp
and cymbals,
violins.
give me that kind of
wind
with you in my arms,
and the night
will be splendid,
without words
being said, words
being sung.

without words

I could listen
all night to music without words.
just strings
and woodwinds,
cellos and kettle drums.
the harp
and cymbals,
violins.
give me that kind of
wind
with you in my arms,
and the night
will be splendid,
without words
being said, words
being sung.

red lips

your red lips
are undefined.
speaking volumes
of mystery
about who are, who
I desire
on this summer night.
how they part, and pout,
or shine
into a smile
beneath
the half moon sky
as we say
hello,
or is it
goodbye.

red lips

your red lips
are undefined.
speaking volumes
of mystery
about who are, who
I desire
on this summer night.
how they part, and pout,
or shine
into a smile
beneath
the half moon sky
as we say
hello,
or is it
goodbye.

under the shady tree

what's new
doesn't stay new
for long.
a dent a ding, a scrape,
soon followed
by the dulled sheen,
the weathered
shine
of once
shiny paint. still
you try
to keep love
new,
parking beneath
the shady tree, going
at it with
hands
and polish,
the chamois cloth.

under the shady tree

what's new
doesn't stay new
for long.
a dent a ding, a scrape,
soon followed
by the dulled sheen,
the weathered
shine
of once
shiny paint. still
you try
to keep love
new,
parking beneath
the shady tree, going
at it with
hands
and polish,
the chamois cloth.

the taste of it

the taste
of it, the sweet or bitter,
salt
upon
your tongue,
the soured bite,
or bland.
each
day chewed and swallowed,
each
meal
between sun ups,
and downs
different than the ones
that came
before it.

the taste of it

the taste
of it, the sweet or bitter,
salt
upon
your tongue,
the soured bite,
or bland.
each
day chewed and swallowed,
each
meal
between sun ups,
and downs
different than the ones
that came
before it.

we sit

we sit
as the clouds cover
the sun,
the sun goes down
over the slant
of middle income
homes,
the pool settles
into a sheer lacquer of blue.
we sigh,
and say
where has the summer gone,
the year.
what's become
of all these months.
children spread
out
to places we'll never go.
books
read, never to be read
again.
so much time
absorbed
and let go. we sit
and all the questions
go unanswered
as the clouds
cover the sun,
the sun goes down over
the slant
of middle income homes.

we sit

we sit
as the clouds cover
the sun,
the sun goes down
over the slant
of middle income
homes,
the pool settles
into a sheer lacquer of blue.
we sigh,
and say
where has the summer gone,
the year.
what's become
of all these months.
children spread
out
to places we'll never go.
books
read, never to be read
again.
so much time
absorbed
and let go. we sit
and all the questions
go unanswered
as the clouds
cover the sun,
the sun goes down over
the slant
of middle income homes.

shark bite

she shows me
the scar on her leg,
lifting her dress
up along the thigh.
see, she says,
that's where a shark bit me,
pointing at the shredded
dark patch.
I nearly died
from loss of blood.
but it's healed now.
the leg is strong.
in fact I go out dancing
every weekend.
maybe we can go dancing
sometime.
ummm. yeah. maybe.

shark bite

she shows me
the scar on her leg,
lifting her dress
up along the thigh.
see, she says,
that's where a shark bit me,
pointing at the shredded
dark patch.
I nearly died
from loss of blood.
but it's healed now.
the leg is strong.
in fact I go out dancing
every weekend.
maybe we can go dancing
sometime.
ummm. yeah. maybe.

i'll change, i promise

when younger
and in love, or lust,
or infatuation,
whatever the case may have been,
you promised
to change
when things began to crumble.
i'll change, you said,
holding her hand,
you'll see. I promise
to be a better,
more caring and loving man.
and you did for a week or two
but in time
fell back into your old
ways.
watching sports,
playing sports,
staying out late with your
friends. but
now, you shrug when things
go awry and say,
you know,
if it's not working, you can
go,
this is who I am.

the nature walk

the children
with their long pole nets
reach over
the rail
and scoop small turtles
off the logs
as they sun
and rest.
hard shelled and green,
their patterns
made in yellow stripes.
each kid holds
one, stroking their
backs,
searching for the heads
that have slipped inside
on long necks.
all is well
until one child, louder
than the rest,
raises his arm,
his hand
holding a turtle
and smashes it against
the sidewalk.
such is the world we
live in.

the nature walk

the children
with their long pole nets
reach over
the rail
and scoop small turtles
off the logs
as they sun
and rest.
hard shelled and green,
their patterns
made in yellow stripes.
each kid holds
one, stroking their
backs,
searching for the heads
that have slipped inside
on long necks.
all is well
until one child, louder
than the rest,
raises his arm,
his hand
holding a turtle
and smashes it against
the sidewalk.
such is the world we
live in.

released from captivity

they release
your friend from jail after
37 days
of confinement.
the sentence shortened by
good behavior.
20 less days in the jump.
he attributes
it to working in the kitchen
with the other
inmates
and coming up with a new
recipe
for scrambled eggs.
jalapenos, he says, on the phone.
I just cut them
up in tiny little pieces
and threw them in
with grated cheese.
everyone loved them.
even the guards.
they made me write down
the recipe
before I left.

released from captivity

they release
your friend from jail after
37 days
of confinement.
the sentence shortened by
good behavior.
20 less days in the jump.
he attributes
it to working in the kitchen
with the other
inmates
and coming up with a new
recipe
for scrambled eggs.
jalapenos, he says, on the phone.
I just cut them
up in tiny little pieces
and threw them in
with grated cheese.
everyone loved them.
even the guards.
they made me write down
the recipe
before I left.

nothing new

what's unwritten will come.
nothing new
or original.
the sun has risen and set
too many
times
for that to happen.
there are only so many
colors
in the rainbow
notes on a scale, words
formed
from letters, but you
go at it.
why not, typing as you listen
to a song
that sounds
familiar.

red white and blue

I saw a long line the other
day down at the hospital
so I went over and asked
what was going on.
what's up with the line.
I asked a man sitting on
a fold out lawn chair,
wearing a pair of red white
and blue underpants.
he was sipping on
a Budweiser. we're here for
the early sign up at the burn
clinic, what with the fourth
of july right around
the corner, it's best to
sign up early, he said.
gots to be prepared.
last year I nearly put an eye
out when my son threw a
bottle at me with a firecracker
in it. it's still a little blurry,
that's why I wear this patch.
at his feet was a box of fireworks
and matches.
rockets and roman candles.
ace bandages and Vaseline.
want a sparkler, he said,
stroking his long beard
with three shortened fingers.
I bought them for the kids,
but they want cherry bombs
this year, they're tired of
sparklers.
they grow up so fast.

the empty nest

her first night
in the empty nest makes her
go to her son's room
to sit upon
his bed.
the books are there,
all lined
still on the shelf,
one fish two fish, blue
fish, green.
the stories
that she read.
the toys in the closet,
the stuffed
bears, George
in his red vest,
the posters of teams
he adores.
shoes upon shoes for
each sport.
clothes folded, by her,
on the dresser,
on the end of the bed
that fit no more.
the empty nest is not
easy, she thinks,
as she lies down,
as she used to do
beside his sleepy head.

the empty nest

her first night
in the empty nest makes her
go to her son's room
to sit upon
his bed.
the books are there,
all lined
still on the shelf,
one fish two fish, blue
fish, green.
the stories
that she read.
the toys in the closet,
the stuffed
bears, George
in his red vest,
the posters of teams
he adores.
shoes upon shoes for
each sport.
clothes folded, by her,
on the dresser,
on the end of the bed
that fit no more.
the empty nest is not
easy, she thinks,
as she lies down,
as she used to do
beside his sleepy head.

he dreams of water

he dreams of water.
great
pools of blue, wide
wet
surfaces
that the stars at night
skim
upon, he dreams
of swimming,
his arms
cutting into the black
liquid,
his feet kicking him
forward
to the shore.
he dreams of water
while above him
as he sleeps
a pipe
leaks, splashing his
legs as it drips upon
the floor.

he dreams of water

he dreams of water.
great
pools of blue, wide
wet
surfaces
that the stars at night
skim
upon, he dreams
of swimming,
his arms
cutting into the black
liquid,
his feet kicking him
forward
to the shore.
he dreams of water
while above him
as he sleeps
a pipe
leaks, splashing his
legs as it drips upon
the floor.

the red sports car

I want the little black
or red two
seat sports car.
the kind with the retractable
hard top
roof.
six speed, leather seats,
sixteen inch tires,
Sirius radio,
blue tooth.
I want it now, before
I change my mind
and come to my senses.
I want a lot of things
though
that I can't have, that would
seem to fit
just right. I want to feel
the wind in my hair,
sort of,
have people stop and gasp,
saying who is that man,
just look at that car
and who is that glamorous
woman with him,
is that hollygolightly?

no charge

there's a bug
in my ice tea. a one inch
bug
with wings,
antennae,
thin legs, he's dead,
drowned
I imagine, caught
under the ice.
I've already taken a few
sips.
stirred in my sweet
and low.
squeezed out the lemon
wedge.
he has little dot black
eyes
which stare back at
me as I hold the glass
up to the light
showing
the waitress.
oh, she says, I do see him,
let me get you another,
not surprised at all.
no charge.

like a chicken on a june bug

he's from Richmond,
a mere
hundred miles from
ground zero,
and yet his syrupy
accent
denotes the deep
south, the civil
war south.
Dixieland with
bars and stripes,
front porch ice tea.
cotton and tobacco fields.
he elongates each word,
using phrases
you once heard in movies
like gone with the wind.
when you laugh a little,
you almost expect
him to pull out a sword
or to slap you with
a glove
asking you to duel,
in a one shot turn and fire
gun fight, but no sir,
no,
he's too polite.

like a chicken on a june bug

he's from Richmond,
a mere
hundred miles from
ground zero,
and yet his syrupy
accent
denotes the deep
south, the civil
war south.
Dixieland with
bars and stripes,
front porch ice tea.
cotton and tobacco fields.
he elongates each word,
using phrases
you once heard in movies
like gone with the wind.
when you laugh a little,
you almost expect
him to pull out a sword
or to slap you with
a glove
asking you to duel,
in a one shot turn and fire
gun fight, but no sir,
no,
he's too polite.

the clock maker

I've been fixing clocks
my entire
life
he says. my home was my shop.
he spreads his arms out to show
me the clocks
on his walls and work bench.
you name a clock
and I've fixed it. go ahead,
name one.
timex, I blurt out.
no, he says.
that's a watch,
not a clock.
what about a swatch?
he looks at me and closes
his heavy eyelids.
that's a watch too he says.
cuckoo clocks.
grandfather clocks,
those are my
specialties. anything from
the black forest
in Germany.
what about those clock
watch computer things
you wear on your wrist
I ask,
tapping my empty wrist.
ever fix one of those.
you have to leave now he says.
as the sound of a cuckoo clock
starts clucking,
the little bird popping
out of his door.
I look at my phone for
the time.
ten minutes late, i tell him.

not in the cloth

I never quite
think to set anything on fire
when i'm
angry about some vague
political issue,
or when the home team loses
a big game.
I never think
to turn over cars,
run out into the street
to loot
the local drug store,
or trash the city.
it hasn't
occurred to me
to shoot bullets into
the air,
throw bricks and Molotov
cocktails
at police cars. shouting
badly rhyming slogans
in loud fist
pumping chants.
i'm not a good rioter
at all.

her cupcakes

i ask her
to marry me because of her
cooking.
baking in particular.
i'm not sure what
it would be like to kiss
her, but
she isn't romantic
in that way.
heaven's forbid if we ever
made love.
no.
it's pretty much all about
her cakes and pies.
the icing,
the eggs and sugar,
flour,
mixed just right.
maybe that's enough to
make
a marriage work
and survive.

not in the cloth

I never quite
think to set anything on fire
when i'm
angry about some vague
political issue,
or when the home team loses
a big game.
I never think
to turn over cars,
run out into the street
to loot
the local drug store,
or trash the city.
it hasn't
occurred to me
to shoot bullets into
the air,
throw bricks and Molotov
cocktails
at police cars. shouting
badly rhyming slogans
in loud fist
pumping chants.
i'm not a good rioter
at all.

cry me a river

she would cry
at weddings. birthday parties.
funerals.
soap commercials,
a cute
dog in a cage
at the pet store.
flowers made her cry.
hallmark cards.
happy news.
sad news.
a sunset,
the full moon made her cry.
I wondered sometimes
where all these
tears
were coming from.
it's probably why it
didn't work out,
and she left.
i saved all my tears
for that moment.

i scream out the window

I scream out the window
for the man
to pick up the three leaves
that he's
pushing towards the truck
with a leaf blower.
he can't hear me though.
the motor is so loud,
and he has earphones on
his head.
i'm getting cranky these
days about things
like this.
don't even get me started
on turn signals.
I wonder if it's something
serious.
something in my head
pressing on a nerve.
drinking used to help,
but not anymore.
I should get an MRI
of my entire body to see
what's up, or maybe, just
maybe
it's beyond that.

i scream out the window

I scream out the window
for the man
to pick up the three leaves
that he's
pushing towards the truck
with a leaf blower.
he can't hear me though.
the motor is so loud,
and he has earphones on
his head.
i'm getting cranky these
days about things
like this.
don't even get me started
on turn signals.
I wonder if it's something
serious.
something in my head
pressing on a nerve.
drinking used to help,
but not anymore.
I should get an MRI
of my entire body to see
what's up, or maybe, just
maybe
it's beyond that.

the open marriage

I can't talk right now,
my wife says on the phone,
whispering. my date just walked
into the bar.
oh, I say. does he look like
the picture on his
e harmony profile?
sort of, she says.
shorter and less hair,
but what are you gonna do?
he's holding a bouquet
of flowers from safeway with him.
I laugh. loser.
well. I just wanted to say
that I left dinner
in the fridge
for you. chicken and potatoes,
green beans.
and there's cherry cobbler,
on the shelf in the back.
great she says. thank you.
will you be coming home
tonight?
I see you took your overnight
bag with you.
maybe. you never know
about these first dates.
but i'll text you, if we
decide to get a room.
oh, and don't forget to walk
the dog before you
go to bed, and give him one
treat not two.

i get it

your instincts are normally
correct
on many things.
no need to analyze
or overthink most decisions.
the first one is right.
you didn't need to read the entire
boring book
by Gladwell
about the process of blink,
to get it.
you get the idea right away
by the cover.
it would have saved
you a lot of money
if you had
gone with that instinct
in the first place.
which holds true
for just about everything
in life, take Betty for
example.

i get it

your instincts are normally
correct
on many things.
no need to analyze
or overthink most decisions.
the first one is right.
you didn't need to read the entire
boring book
by Gladwell
about the process of blink,
to get it.
you get the idea right away
by the cover.
it would have saved
you a lot of money
if you had
gone with that instinct
in the first place.
which holds true
for just about everything
in life, take Betty for
example.

how far is vegas?

it's unclear
how we arrived at this destination
without
a map.
but here we are, sitting
in the car
and staring
into the grand canyon
while parked at a steep edge.
it's big, I tell her,
as she applies lipstick to her
lips
in the side view mirror.
should we get out
and look,
maybe take a picture for
facebook
or something. people should
know that we were here.
do we have to she says?
do you have any gum?
I hand her a stick of chew.
what caused this, she says,
snapping her gum,
throwing the wrapper out
the window.
I dunno. something.
who knows.
okay. well, I've seen enough.
let's go, how far
is Vegas from here?

call someone

with age
comes delegation.
call a plumber for the leak.
an electrician
for
the fizzing wire.
don't go up on that roof
to tack down a tile,
or under the car
to fix anything.
many things were once
easy to do yourself,
perhaps.
but easier now
by someone else.

unplanned for

one fall
not far off, but far enough
away
that you
make no mark of it,
you'll turn
to someone
and say that you miss work.
that you
miss
the action of being
involved
with things.
there will be sadness
in your voice,
not joy, but resignation
to a different
life
unplanned for.

unplanned for

one fall
not far off, but far enough
away
that you
make no mark of it,
you'll turn
to someone
and say that you miss work.
that you
miss
the action of being
involved
with things.
there will be sadness
in your voice,
not joy, but resignation
to a different
life
unplanned for.

the best meal

the best meal
is simple,
a slight of hand.
an easy task made fresh
and carried
out to the table.
together you sit,
and slowly
with fork and knife,
eat.
the smile of love,
the nod of thankfulness
on both your
faces.

where life ends

sometimes you can pretend
to be serious.
it's hard, but you've learned
over the years
to not make
sarcastic remarks at everything.
your mind races with
wise guy remarks.
you can hardly
hold the words
in your quivering mouth,
but you do,
biting your tongue,
funerals and weddings,
serious events,
like that, where life ends.

the chicken ranch plan

let's go to a chicken
ranch
my friend jimmy suggests
after drinking
way too much beer
and being rejected by every
woman who came into the bar.
a chicken ranch, I say.
you mean a cat house.
whatever, he says.
cat house, chicken farm,
whatever it's called these days.
I need some affection.
how much money do you have?
we both take out
our cash and lay it
on the bar, counting
soggy ones,
and fives. some nickels
and dimes, pennies roll out,
making the bartender shake his head.
it adds up to thirteen
dollars and change.
not enough, jimmy says wistfully.
nope,
I say.
but we could get a chicken
sandwich somewhere
and cup of coffee.

long gone

the collars
on the hook
indicate
dogs gone. long gone.
tags, still
on, the little brass name
plates dulled
over time.
their leashes too,
hang free.
a dog dish, one
for water, one for food,
both bone
dry, on a shelf
now,
unreached.
a rubber ball, a shoe once
chewed,
a bed,
rounded and soft,
still
with the hair
they shed.

long gone

the collars
on the hook
indicate
dogs gone. long gone.
tags, still
on, the little brass name
plates dulled
over time.
their leashes too,
hang free.
a dog dish, one
for water, one for food,
both bone
dry, on a shelf
now,
unreached.
a rubber ball, a shoe once
chewed,
a bed,
rounded and soft,
still
with the hair
they shed.

hard candy

most days
she's happier than a new
box of candy.
shaking the full
box with the sweet
hard shells
of good and plenty.

they rattle from side to side.

hear that? she says,
putting the box
up to my ear. 

that's me. want some?

it wasn't me

the bottles were lined
up neatly in the confines
of her white medicine cabinet.
carefully, while running
the sink water
and flushing the toilet,
I picked up each one
and read
the label, trying to
understand
the true nature of her.
some were once a day
prescriptions while others
said take twice a day
before meals.
some said do not drive
or operate farm
machinery after taking
this medication, and
one said you may feel
lethargic and weak
after taking this pill.
your libido will diminish
and you will lose
all interest in those
that love you.
finally, I knew that
it wasn't me after all.

it wasn't me

the bottles were lined
up neatly in the confines
of her white medicine cabinet.
carefully, while running
the sink water
and flushing the toilet,
I picked up each one
and read
the label, trying to
understand
the true nature of her.
some were once a day
prescriptions while others
said take twice a day
before meals.
some said do not drive
or operate farm
machinery after taking
this medication, and
one said you may feel
lethargic and weak
after taking this pill.
your libido will diminish
and you will lose
all interest in those
that love you.
finally, I knew that
it wasn't me after all.

happy feet

out of the blue,
my foot, as if detached
from me
begins to tap
against the floor,
as if it wants
to dance.
all it takes is for me
to hear a happy
tune on the radio
and off it goes,
sliding and twisting,
tapping
as the rest of me
sits still.
I watch it and smile,
I like the way it keeps
the beat,
has a life of its own,
somehow.

happy feet

out of the blue,
my foot, as if detached
from me
begins to tap
against the floor,
as if it wants
to dance.
all it takes is for me
to hear a happy
tune on the radio
and off it goes,
sliding and twisting,
tapping
as the rest of me
sits still.
I watch it and smile,
I like the way it keeps
the beat,
has a life of its own,
somehow.

what i miss

sometimes I miss her cooking.
the smell of it,
the table full of plates.
the oven going, pots
boiling on the stove.
I miss that about her,
especially when i'm hungry
and settling
on a peanut butter sandwich
for dinner.
i miss another thing about her
too, which was almost
as as good as her cooking.
sometimes i think about
that when i'm walking the dog,
or staring at the clouds,
or lying
in the great empty space
of my bed ready for sleep.
but that's it, that's truly
all i miss about her,
the rest gave me a headache,
and so it goes.

what i miss

sometimes I miss her cooking.
the smell of it,
the table full of plates.
the oven going, pots
boiling on the stove.
I miss that about her,
especially when i'm hungry
and settling
on a peanut butter sandwich
for dinner.
i miss another thing about her
too, which was almost
as as good as her cooking.
sometimes i think about
that when i'm walking the dog,
or staring at the clouds,
or lying
in the great empty space
of my bed ready for sleep.
but that's it, that's truly
all i miss about her,
the rest gave me a headache,
and so it goes.

have you seen my husband

have you seen
my husband, the woman says,
running into me at the park.
she doesn't use
his name, which to me indicates
he's in deep water,
hot water,
a swirling typhoon of troubled
water.
rip tide.
nope, I say.
you haven't seen him?
No.
she looks into my eyes, squinting,
trying to figure
out if i'm lying
or telling the truth,
taking the man's side, as most
men would.
are you sure, she asks again.
and like Peter, the apostle,
I say no for a third time.

did i tell about the time

I tire of my own stories.
having repeated them so often,
refining them
with better words and phrases,
adjectives and
metaphors.
embellishing too much,
stretching to the limit
the elastic truth.
a new adventure might be nice.
a new
disaster or tale
to be told,
a love gone wrong,
a job from hell, something
to tell,
and fool the boredom
out of this life.

did i tell about the time

I tire of my own stories.
having repeated them so often,
refining them
with better words and phrases,
adjectives and
metaphors.
embellishing too much,
stretching to the limit
the elastic truth.
a new adventure might be nice.
a new
disaster or tale
to be told,
a love gone wrong,
a job from hell, something
to tell,
and fool the boredom
out of this life.

leaving it just so

she would
move things, an inch to the left
or right,
closing drawers,
adjusting the blinds,
the lights.
she couldn't leave the house
if things
weren't just so,
just right.
and even then we turned
around
to go back
and make sure the oven
wasn't on.

leaving it just so

she would
move things, an inch to the left
or right,
closing drawers,
adjusting the blinds,
the lights.
she couldn't leave the house
if things
weren't just so,
just right.
and even then we turned
around
to go back
and make sure the oven
wasn't on.

the life we borrow

he talks of fish,
as if
he's talking about a lover.
how the early
sun rises
and falls upon his face,
warming him.
how he slips into his high
boots
to wade out into
the low tide,
casting out into
the calm sway of river,
then waiting. she'll come
he says,
she always does. you'll see.
my bucket will be filled.
and tonight we shall
eat
by the fire, our cheeks
full of this life
we borrow.

there is no wind

handshakes
go around, who are you,
what do you do.
i'm so and so,
that's my kid over there.
the resumes
flow out
as small sandwiches
are served,
cut vegetables.
someone has made melon
balls,
which the dogs
seem to like.
into the night, the bugs
come out,
the string
of party lights is dim
under a full
moon.
there is no wind.
in time after the poetry
is read,
and the music played,
a gentle sigh
as one erupts. everyone rises
from their chair,
turning towards
the door, pleasantly
tired.

there is no wind

handshakes
go around, who are you,
what do you do.
i'm so and so,
that's my kid over there.
the resumes
flow out
as small sandwiches
are served,
cut vegetables.
someone has made melon
balls,
which the dogs
seem to like.
into the night, the bugs
come out,
the string
of party lights is dim
under a full
moon.
there is no wind.
in time after the poetry
is read,
and the music played,
a gentle sigh
as one erupts. everyone rises
from their chair,
turning towards
the door, pleasantly
tired.

ten days at sea

the travel
brochure came in the mail.
i had
taken a cruise once with this
line of ships
and they haven't
left me alone since.
the pictures are of blues skies,
calms seas.
beautiful men and women
sipping
colorful drinks
while lounging on white
chairs in the sun.
it wasn't that way at all
when I was there.
it rained
and everyone got sea sick in rough seas.
it had it's moments though.
my significant
other at the time had forgotten
to bring her bipolar
medications and tried to push me off
the ship,
over a rail, after asking
me repeatedly where I had
been hiding.

old time religion

the tough part
about religion is that they
make you work
so hard
to be a part of it.
the kneeling
the praying, the getting
dressed
and leaving the house
to get where they
want you to go.
and be on time.
there's a lot to learn too.
the prayers.
when to stand,
when to kneel, when to thump
your chest
or sing.
sometimes you feel like a monkey
on a string.
you used to know all of this,
back when
the church was
in Latin
and they burned incense
all day
making you dizzy, but now,
as the years have passed
and they started
playing guitars
and dancing in church,
you feel clueless.

knowing your limitations

the call of the wild
does not call you.
you have no desire
to camp
or hunt, or fish,
or climb
icy mountains. there is
not a bone
in your body
that wants to skin
an animal,
chop wood and build a fire.
you would not have survived
the Mayflower,
staring out the port hole,
asking continually,
are we there yet,
or traveling
across the continent
in a covered wagon
dodging flaming arrows
by disgruntled native
americans.
you've realized your limitations.
yours revolves
around a bed
and room service, a mint
on your pillow
before turning in.
a complimentary robe
and wi fi.

to swing

it's a gaggle of girls.
broads
Sinatra might say
who gather at
the glen echo park to dance
on the hardwood floor.
swing.
they are dressed
as if it's nineteen forty
four,
before VJ day,
with a war still on.
polka dots and bows.
it's hot in there, and their
curls
droop flat
after dancing with sailors
and soldiers,
who were.
no alcohol, except
in flasks
left in the cars.
the music is loud
and boisterous
as the dresses fly up,
the men with boyish hope
in their eyes.
the shoes click
across the wood.
it's a fantasy world.

to swing

it's a gaggle of girls.
broads
Sinatra might say
who gather at
the glen echo park to dance
on the hardwood floor.
swing.
they are dressed
as if it's nineteen forty
four,
before VJ day,
with a war still on.
polka dots and bows.
it's hot in there, and their
curls
droop flat
after dancing with sailors
and soldiers,
who were.
no alcohol, except
in flasks
left in the cars.
the music is loud
and boisterous
as the dresses fly up,
the men with boyish hope
in their eyes.
the shoes click
across the wood.
it's a fantasy world.

the operation

she points to where the surgeon
will cut.
dragging her finger as
if a scalpel across her hip.
then another
up the front of her leg.
she draws an imaginary
ball and socket
in the air, a post that
will be set into the bone,
then wraps the wire around
her thin leg.
she's unafraid.
i'm weak, and need to sit
down. I decide at that point
to be more careful
with my legs.

the operation

she points to where the surgeon
will cut.
dragging her finger as
if a scalpel across her hip.
then another
up the front of her leg.
she draws an imaginary
ball and socket
in the air, a post that
will be set into the bone,
then wraps the wire around
her thin leg.
she's unafraid.
i'm weak, and need to sit
down. I decide at that point
to be more careful
with my legs.

the steps

his hair, blown white
with years.
steadying himself on the park
steps
leading up
to where the ridge lay,
where the water began,
the ducks moved
silently along the blue.
he climbed,
stopping halfway, then
continued.
it didn't seem that long ago
when he ran up
these steps.
then back down to do it again.
when he reached the top,
he took a deep breath and looked
out
across the sunlit water.
nothing had changed.
the world
looked the same.
everything had changed.

the steps

his hair, blown white
with years.
steadying himself on the park
steps
leading up
to where the ridge lay,
where the water began,
the ducks moved
silently along the blue.
he climbed,
stopping halfway, then
continued.
it didn't seem that long ago
when he ran up
these steps.
then back down to do it again.
when he reached the top,
he took a deep breath and looked
out
across the sunlit water.
nothing had changed.
the world
looked the same.
everything had changed.

the one in the middle

not all her children were
as loved
as the one in the middle.
she was golden.
the peacemaker.
the one who always called
on mother's day.
on sunday.
who brought dessert
to family dinners.
the others were different.
not mean,
or awful,
but different. less caring
than the one in the middle.
this made her
wonder
if she held that one more
lovingly
in the night
when she cried.
what had she done wrong
with the others.

mrs. burnette's peanut butter pie

the recipe catches your eye
in the small town
gazette.
mrs. burnette's peanut butter
cream pie.
you study it
as you eat your lunch.
birds flutter nearby
for croutons from your salad.
without looking
you toss a few into the air.
peanut butter pie,
you say to yourself
quietly,
reading the ingredients.
milk, sugar, eggs.
peanut butter. creamy. a half a cup.
there is a photo of mrs. burnette
besides the recipe.
a small bio
telling you how long she's
been baking cakes and pies
for her friends
and family.
it looks like someone told
her to smile,
a thing she wasn't used to doing.
you can handle this.
carefully you tear out
the recipe
from the thin paper, fold
it and stuff
it into your pocket.
it's been a good day,
and you hope so too for
mrs. burnette.

the soft life

the child has everything.
his life
ruined
at the start.
his hands are soft and will
stay that way.
there is no fear
of hunger,
of losing anything
that's lost.
another will appear.
it's what parents are for,
no matter the price,
the true cost.

breaking even

the close shave.
the road
not taken where the bridge
was out.
the almost
thing that nearly happened.
the fallen
tree, the storm that blew
in
the moment you left.
you can count
them on one
hand, the miracles
of your life,
you're almost breaking
even.

i brought waffles home

lilly worked at Ihop
the night shift,
when it was mostly
cops
and truck drivers,
dead beats
and losers coming in
half lit
on cheap wine, or beer.
the tips were okay.
sometimes she'd peel off
her pink uniform
and leave it lying
at the foot
of the bed in a pastel
puddle
of stained clothes.
I could smell the syrup
on her body,
the slickness of fried
eggs and bacon.
hashbrowns.
sometimes her pen
would still be in her hair
as she snuggled up
beside me.
I brought waffles home,
she'd whisper, kissing
me on the cheek before
falling into
a deep sleep that freed
her from
the life she was living.

the scream

you wake up
to someone screaming.
you don't know if it's a good
scream though,
or a bad scream.
is it murder, or sex
going on
next door.
you wait for another clue.
it gets quiet
fast.
too fast perhaps
for either.

the scream

you wake up
to someone screaming.
you don't know if it's a good
scream though,
or a bad scream.
is it murder, or sex
going on
next door.
you wait for another clue.
it gets quiet
fast.
too fast perhaps
for either.

i'll have a salad

can you take
the blue cheese out of the salad,
she says.
feta or goat cheese if you have it.
and the onions.
oh, and i'm allergic
to red tomatoes, so if you
wouldn't mind,
please remove those too.
and I see there are nuts
in this salad
as well.
I have a severe reaction
to nuts, so
let's take those out
too. ummm, and greek olives.
do you have just
plain olives,
black, slice thinly though,
not whole or halves?
I like my lettuce shredded
into small pieces,
can you be a prince
and do that.
cross cuts, not against
the grain.
and if you have cucumbers,
take the skin off
and dice them up.
oh, and put the dressing on
the side.

i'll have a salad

can you take
the blue cheese out of the salad,
she says.
feta or goat cheese if you have it.
and the onions.
oh, and i'm allergic
to red tomatoes, so if you
wouldn't mind,
please remove those too.
and I see there are nuts
in this salad
as well.
I have a severe reaction
to nuts, so
let's take those out
too. ummm, and greek olives.
do you have just
plain olives,
black, slice thinly though,
not whole or halves?
I like my lettuce shredded
into small pieces,
can you be a prince
and do that.
cross cuts, not against
the grain.
and if you have cucumbers,
take the skin off
and dice them up.
oh, and put the dressing on
the side.

the other side of the tracks

she wanted to make
love
in the back seat of my car.
drive
over the tracks
she said, all the way,
I don't want a train
to hit us.
good idea, I told her,
steering
the old ford
over the cinder stones
and rails,
stopping under
a canopy of trees,
full with spring rains.
this is good she said,
crawling over
the seat. come on.
leave the radio on, she said.
but my battery,
I told her, I don't want
to kill my battery.
she rolled her eyes
as her blouse came off,
then her jeans.
what are you doing, she said.
popping
a can of black label beer.
finally I got in back.
then a train came.
a long slow train no more
than ten
feet in front of us.
the engineered looked down
and waved,
I thought I heard him call
out her name.
finally, the caboose appeared,
dull red,
with an old man on the back
stoop.
hey marcy, he yelled. waving
a flashlight.
a whistle blew.

the other side of the tracks

she wanted to make
love
in the back seat of my car.
drive
over the tracks
she said, all the way,
I don't want a train
to hit us.
good idea, I told her,
steering
the old ford
over the cinder stones
and rails,
stopping under
a canopy of trees,
full with spring rains.
this is good she said,
crawling over
the seat. come on.
leave the radio on, she said.
but my battery,
I told her, I don't want
to kill my battery.
she rolled her eyes
as her blouse came off,
then her jeans.
what are you doing, she said.
popping
a can of black label beer.
finally I got in back.
then a train came.
a long slow train no more
than ten
feet in front of us.
the engineered looked down
and waved,
I thought I heard him call
out her name.
finally, the caboose appeared,
dull red,
with an old man on the back
stoop.
hey marcy, he yelled. waving
a flashlight.
a whistle blew.

names and numbers

my mailman,
Ming,
calls me by my full name
when he steps
onto the porch
to slide the mail into the slot.
sometimes I see
him coming
and open the door
before he gathers
mail from his deep leather
pouch.
he says my name, first and last,
as if he knows me.
the circulars and bills,
the rare letter,
handwritten.
Christmas cards. packages.
I wonder if he knows everyone
in this way.
lying in bed at night,
his grey uniform removed,
his feet still moving along
the paved
route of his life.

car love

I love cars
she says.
all sizes. all colors.
shiny cars.
wood grained,
sleek metal.
I like to ride all
night in a new
car, or an old car.
I love the smell of cars.
the sound the engine
makes. the way the tires
press and squeal
along the highway
when they come across
a curve.
i'll get into strangers
cars
if they pull
up beside me and wink.
if the seats are leather,
if they're
polished
and clean.
i'll ride in any car
if it makes me sing,
makes my
heart skip a beat.
what kind of a car do
you have?

scratch off

I won't do another test
your father
says to you, weary on the phone.
I've
done all that they've asked.
they've examined me
inside and out.
to hell with them.
I want the operation now.
I want to see
again.
I want to drive,
to read,
to shop
and stick another twenty
into the scratch off machine
to see what I've won
or not won
just one more time.

scratch off

I won't do another test
your father
says to you, weary on the phone.
I've
done all that they've asked.
they've examined me
inside and out.
to hell with them.
I want the operation now.
I want to see
again.
I want to drive,
to read,
to shop
and stick another twenty
into the scratch off machine
to see what I've won
or not won
just one more time.

off the chain

she's out.
the dog has left the house.
jumped the fence,
looking back
with a long tongue,
smiling.
wild eyed.
the dog
is off the chain,
beyond
the gate,
the leash, out of hand,
nearly out
of sight.
she might come back,
she might not.
you wonder
why she left in the first
place.
with food shelter
and love
in abundance where
you stand.
oh well.

off the chain

she's out.
the dog has left the house.
jumped the fence,
looking back
with a long tongue,
smiling.
wild eyed.
the dog
is off the chain,
beyond
the gate,
the leash, out of hand,
nearly out
of sight.
she might come back,
she might not.
you wonder
why she left in the first
place.
with food shelter
and love
in abundance where
you stand.
oh well.