going Casper

they call

it ghosting now.

going Casper on someone.

delete

and block,

disappear

completely.

you're in the wind.

not a word, or image

or thought,

do you

send out, or respond

to. it's

a clean break,

a clear message

that you've had enough.

you're out.

the garnish

i can't ever remember

buying

a radish.

celery yes,

a turnip or two,

yes,

but never a radish.

i've even

bought parsley, which

amazes me.

radishes. no.

i like the color

of them

though.

like little christmas

ornaments

waiting to be hung

on a branch

or sliced

and decoratively

placed in a salad.

it's all

about accessories. like

the way you garnish

yourself

before going out to dance.

thanks for saving me

some people can't handle

waking up

and going to work.

they need to swim

the english channel,

or do the dog paddle

from miami

to havana. they want

to sail around

the world

on an inner tube, climb

everest

without a shirka,

just bare hands

and a granola bar.

and then you read

about them later,

heroically saved from

the sharks and falls,

near drownings,

near death. they lie 

in an intensive care ward.

giving thumbs up

to the camera,

saying i'll try again

next year, you'll see,

once my bones heal,

and i get some rest.

reboot

as annoying

and addictive 

as the cell phone is.

at least

it can

be erased.

all messages,

all contacts, all pictures,

all traces

of the past and

your former

mistakes.

reboot, start over.

with just a few clicks

of the button and you're

on your way.

low on sand

i look at my bookshelf,

the big one

in the big room, and i see

three of the same

books.

don't waste your life,

being the title.

a spiritual quest,

showing you how

your life should go.

maybe someone has been

trying to tell me

something.

i should read one of them

at some point.

the hourglass 

once full of sand,

is dangerously running low.

the soft landing

at times we hang onto

the cliff

as if our lives

depended on it.

our fingers digging

into the jagged

stone.

afraid of the fall.

afraid

of breaking bones,

shattering our

bodies on the cold 

rocks below.

we can hardly look

down, until

exhausted,

we have to let go,

and then

surprised that it was

only a few feet in 

falling to the soft

earth below.

giddy up cowboy

she bought me

cowboy

boots and a leather vest.

a big hat

to go with the outfit.

a belt with two

steers on the buckle.

a pair of leather

chaps.

it wasn't Halloween,

so i asked her,

what gives.

i want you to be

different she said,

cracking a whip

and yodeling. throwing

a rope around

my neck.

it was going to be wild

night

up ahead.

fifty years later

he would fish.

he'd rise early

in the cold

morning

before the sun.

grab his gear,

his rod

his lines, his hooks

and bait.

boots up to his waist.

casting out,

reeling in,

casting out.

i'd find him in

the afternoon,

sitting on a rock,

smoking a cigarette,

the white bucket

full.

it was the same river

we fished in

when we were young.

but i left

and he stayed on.

the unchained heart

how calm the day is,

the sea,

how little the trees move,

how

blue the sky is,

the gentle

breeze.

the warmth of sun

upon me.

it's good once more

to be unshackled,

to be free.

pleasure

we all have an itch,

something somewhere 

within us

to be that begs

to be done.

it's ephemeral though.

a temporary

fix.

it's all temporary when

you think about it.

each one of us,

just passing through.

but while we're here,

come closer,

i'll tell you where

to scratch.

heart breaking news

when i hear the words,

we're having

spaghetti squash for dinner

tonight,

without bread,

or meat,

or red sauce.

i want to cry. i go find

a chair and pout

in the darkness.

what has the world come

to?  how i wish sometimes

it was nineteen sixty-five

all over again,

with my mother

standing at the stove

cooking real food. 

meatballs in the pan,

red sauce

splattering all over her

hands.

the pot boiling over

with noodles,

the warm oven filled with

garlic bread.

peering into the kitchen,

asking if it's ready yet?

it's not my fault

i find it easy

to dismiss

the angry, the arrogant,

the self

righteous,

but then an hour later

i feel bad about

it.

i confuse myself

with my

regrets.

maybe they too weren't

hugged as a child.

maybe they had

an abusive

husband, or father along

the way.

a lunatic mother?

a psychotic wife?

who's to know.

who's to blame, we've all

got something

going on these days.

a black and white movie

it's a long afternoon,

the snow

and ice keeping

me put. it's

a black and white

affair

of an old movie, one

i've seen before.

worth

seeing again, if i could

keep my eyes open.

i shut them

for a second,

which becomes an hour.

i can hear the voices,

the music.

i know how it all turns

out in the end.

but it doesn't matter,

the sleep

is good.

the dream is good.

i find comfort

in the familiar.

they wonder why we drink

the housewives turned decorators

are the worst.

no clue, no education, no

idea

what they're doing, but

friends have told them they

have good taste.

"you should become a decorator"

i like how you put

that chair by the window,

and that lampshade

is adorable.

where did you get that dish rag.

love it. it matches the plates.

they want the impossible

done.

ceilings wallpapered.

closets.

doors. 

peel and stick contact

paper.

farrow and ball paints,

one fifty per gallon.,

they look at a tv show

and think, hey, i can do that.

i have good

taste and a flair for

the dramatic.

sure, i don't know the first

thing about

paints, but look at my nails,

my lipstick. my shoes.

everything about me is in

sync.

plotting my escape

i don't blame the animals

in the zoo

for plotting their escape.

looking for the door

left open,

the cage unlatched,

the gap

between the bars. i've been

there, been

inside wanting out

many times.

in love gone sour.

scratching another day

onto the wall.

digging the tunnel

a spoonful at a time,

waiting patiently

as i hear the jangle 

of her keys,

her footsteps coming

down the hall.

maybe tomorrow

it's natural, human

to always

think we have more time.

and as you flip

to the back page of the metro

section

to review who's died,

you wonder,

what were they putting

off, delaying

for another time.

caffeine

i make a mess

making coffee, the grinder,

the beans,

the pour over,

boiling water, the filters.

the scale.

i'm a mad

scientist trying

to get my fill of hot

caffeine.

spills are everywhere,

grounds,

and drips.

i suddenly have more respect

for the baristas.

where's the instant,

my go to

sleeves.

ignore this poem

she asks me if we can chat

on what's app.

i say.

what's that?

she sends me her number

from russia.

it takes some time

before i can figure it all out.

download

and all that.

she sends me a few

suggestive photos, but

i immediately believe that

my bank account

is being emptied and that

the police

will be knocking at my door

any minute for

talking to a minor,

which she says she isn't.

i'm forty two,

she says, and sends me

another picture of her

milking a cow in the Ukraine.

she's smiling and wearing

only mittens.

she's beautiful.

she's asks me if i have a checking

account or savings,

or both.

i'm starting to get just a tiny

bit suspicious,

but tell her yes, i have both.

do you need my

social security number too?

she's caught me in a weak moment

having watched everything

there is to watch on netflix

and amazone prime.

i'm smitten

with the girl in mittens.

he was a handsome man

when the man

grabbed her purse, 

my poetry

professor,

as she was getting

into her car

with a bag of groceries,

she held on.

she screamed

and kicked,

looking at the man's

face, into his eyes.

he ran.

and when the police

arrived they asked her

what he looked like,

and she said,

he was very tall

and quite handsome

and i thought

maybe

if he wasn't doing this,

he might be nice.

rewriting the will

it's not easy having

children.

watching them grow,

having done your best

to instill some sort of

work ethic and 

yet they flounder, not

getting it,

disdaining work,

living off the land

of other's good will.

it's the generation of 

self absorption and

lazy.

i do my best though to keep

them all happy.

sending them

money for the holidays

and birthdays.

sending cash

or a check. but at times

i almost feel like

they're waiting for my

death, 

ready to take it all

and not just the occasional

tid bits.

how's your health,

they ask, still wearing

your mask?

time to rewrite the will.

all of it

going towards the welfare

of stray dogs

and cats.

what was that about?

funny

how we get along

and then

we're gone.

woosh.

the slam of a door,

the closing

of a book.

we vanish, 

we disappear, back

into

our own worlds

still

murky, all of it

never clear.

a winters day

some snow melts,

some doesn't. some lingers

in the shade,

small ice bergs

along the curbs,

the hill

where the children

ride their sleighs.

the ice is slow

even with the sun

in going down the drain.

too cold still

for all of it to go away.

which makes me think

of you

and me, stuck in winter

for another day.

please, tell me what to do with my life

i like when people

correct me.

tell me what i should be doing

to improve

my life on earth.

you need to read more,

eat more

healthy.

you should join a gym,

or a yoga

class. you should stretch.

meditate,

go to church on sundays.

have you ever

been to Paris?

you should travel more,

see the world.

take a dance class.

learn to salsa, rumba,

shag and swing.

you should lighten your

carbon footprint.

buy electric,

use paper bags.

recycle your glass

and tin,

buy cotton sheets.

you should retire, invest

in long care

living.

give to the poor, work

in a shelter.

buy me a diamond ring.

late night out

when a woman

stands in the doorway

with her hands on her hips,

a frown on her face,

holding

the collar of your

shirt,

and you're still

lying in bed at ten in the morning.

peeking between

two pillows.

you know you're in for it.

busted, your dead.

a mild amend

i put the olive branch out.

i can't

not

be friends anymore.

lovers, no.

but friends, yes.

who doesn't have room

for another

friend, an old friend.

it's not a welcome

home, but just me passing

through,

giving you a wave,

making a mild amend.

what's up with that dude

the woman in front of me

strikes

up a conversation about

the long line we're in.

waiting to check out 

of the grocery store.

what's up with that dude,

she says, pointing

at a guy in an orange

hazmat suit.

he puts one item

on the belt, and then stops.

talks on his phone,

texts

and then picks up a magazine

from the shelf.

i know, i know i tell her.

and look what he's buying.

candy, cookies, milk.

dog food, and trout.

weird, she says. very strange.

and then it's her turn,

goodbye, she says, good luck.

nice chatting.

i turn to the woman behind me.

can you believe that woman?

have you ever seen so much

chocolate in one cart?

a purse without a bottom

i watch

women

reaching into their large purses.

unsnapping

them, and peering in,

reaching down

deep for what

they're trying to find.

it's a mine

in there.

gold and debris. girl stuff.

lipstick

and whatever keeps

them afloat

throughout the day.

a hairbrush,

a mirror. mints.

another phone you've never

seen.

pens and pads

of paper.

so many strange

and unmanly things.

burnt toast

some days

you are the unsharpened

point

of a pencil.

the leaking ink

of a pen, 

blotting

your shirt.

some days you are the burnt

toast,

the smoke

alarm going off,

the car that won't turn

over.

the stubbed toe.

soured milk.

some days

are just like that,

there's no going around

them. you just

hang on and wait

for time to pass.

What exactly is love?

i get invited to the neighborhood

discussion group by a friendly woman

who i see on occasion as she walks

her dog.

we'd like to have a man's opinion

sometimes, she says, please join us tonight

if you aren't too busy.

it's quite an invigorating 

few hours of intellectual discussion.

why not, i tell her.

i've got nothing else to do.

no games are on tonight.

so, having just moved into

the area, and in an attempt to make

new friends, i show up at eight. 

new button down shirt,

a little dab of old spice on,

carrying a martini.

tonight's topic is love

i see by the sign on the door

the word Love

written inside a big heart.

i smile smugly as i sit down

in my chair, love, pfffft.

i got this. i cross

my arms and wink at a woman

a few seats down. she's wearing

camouflage pants

and a clunky pair of black doc martins.

she shakes her head at me

and appears to shudder,

as she pulls her legs tightly together.

the eight of us are sitting in

a big circle of mismatched

lawn chairs, dining room

chairs, and an oak barrel

brought in from the garage.

okay, the leader, Emily, says.

still in her yoga pants and 

slowly nibbling on an enormous carrot.

who wants to start us off?

i see we have a new participant

here, he wishes to remain

anonymous, or to be called

jimmy. but let's make him feel welcome

and give him a round of applause,

how brave of him to come out

in this weather, and being

the only male willing to attend

our discussion group since the start 

of the me too movement.

i nod and smile, taking in the warm

applause. for flair, i give a nice bow,

careful not to spill my martini.

the subject is Love, Emily says,

putting her hand to her heart

and closing her eyes

with a beatific smile on her face.

Love. Love makes the world go round,

but what is love, what makes us love.

is love sustainable throughout

a marriage, a relationship,

or are we all doomed to stray

when love goes awry or loses

it's initial drug like infatuation?

is it chemical, emotional, a combination

of the two.

can one be friends and make love,

and yet not be in love?

why do men think sex is akin

to love?

i raise my hand.

yes, jimmy, question? it's a little

early for questions, but go ahead.

yes. well it's more of a comment

than a question.

Go on Jimmy.

okay, now hear me out.

i think it's okay to have sex with

people you're friends with,

if it's mutual, and there's the 

possibility that it may develop

into love. i'm not talking about

the one night stand, the hook up,

or wham bam thank you mam,

or who's your daddy, 

but you know. friends

with benefits. i think sometimes

that will turn into love.

maybe, maybe not, ya know?

it's a good way to jump start things though.

i mean sometimes you meet someone

and you've both had a few

cocktails and the next

thing you know you're in the back

seat of a car

doing the wild thing.

silence.  crickets.

i see a woman with her knitting

needles out, but she's

not knitting.

someone breaks out a giant

tupperware tub of cookies.

the cork of a wine bottle

gets popped.

Emily breaks her carrot in half

with a loud snap

and throws it towards

a trash can in the kitchen,

umm, jimmy. i have no idea

what you're talking about, but

thank you for that very man like

explanation of what love can be

in your mixed up world.

the woman i winked at raises her

hand, yes, Jude, question?

i vote that we make Jimmy leave

this discussion group, can we

take a vote?

sure, Emily says. let's vote.

all in favor

of Jimmy leaving the group, raise their hand.

everyone raises their hand,

some raise both hands.

i get up, okay, okay. i get it, i get it.

i'm leaving.

and as i walk by the cookie

dish, i grab a few for the road,

taking a bite of one,

what the hell, oatmeal, with raisins?

who made these?

why would anyone bring oatmeal

cookies to a discussion group?

in love with the milk man

i miss the milk

man, she tells her son,

looking longingly out

the window.

it was wonderful,

the metal box on the stoop

with a glass

bottle

of milk,

eggs, bread

and juice.

a pound of bacon

too.

his big square truck,

left

to idle at the curb

as he scurried up

the porch

to deliver the goods.

his bright white uniform

and hat,

always with a smile.

he was dashing.

sometimes

he'd beep or wave if

he saw me

coming out in my

robe,

sometimes,

he'd leave a sweet

roll, or two,

a cute little card,

and now there's something

i have to tell you

son,

something about

you.

it's not that at all

i'm sorry, 

but i can't make it,

i say over the phone.

i'm tired.

work, you know?

it's been really busy

this time of year,

but we can try again next

week, if you'd

like.

sure sure, no it's not

that at all.

it's cold out, they're

talking about snow.

i do have a bit of

a sniffle too. probably

nothing, but one can't

be too sure these days.

right, right, i know.

tea and lemon.

a hot bath, rest.

got it.

we'll i need to run now.

have to go.

just wanted to let you

know.

next week?

okay, okay. we'll see

how it goes.

the picture box

she  makes a bowl of popcorn

and dumps out

the cardboard box of

photographs

pulled from the attic.

it's an ambitious undertaking,

sorting, slipping them

into albums.

with dates and comments.

hundreds of pictures,

piled aimlessly

in the deep box.

the history of her life.

she gets up for a glass of wine,

and brings the bottle

to the floor, it takes

about two minutes

before she's holding one

picture and crying.

unable to look at more.

critiquing poems

i want it to be golden.

i want it to shine.

to be precise and perfect.

i don't want to say

what i have to say,

trying hard to be nice.

it's not ready.

it's not good.

it's rambling. it needs

work

then silence from the

other side.

you don't love me,

do you? i  insert

an elongated sigh

into the dry silence.

i'm done with the business

of giving advice. 

unsober dialing

we have our weak moments,

some after

a stiff drink or two,

or feeling

a tad under the weather,

lonely and sad

staring out the window

at grim

winter work.

slush and grey snow.

the salted roads,

the crunch of a plow

so we pick up our phone,

and dial.

life is too calm, we need

more drama,

we need something to

do, the only reason

in calling the likes of you.

the playful bicker

they like

to bicker playfully when

others were

around.

married forever and 

a day.

he leaves the seat up,

she leaves

it down.

he snores, she's obsessed

with shoes,

they take turns

being the matador,

the other the bull.

it's all in the name of love,

it seems,

though

it's hardly a surprise

when i hear

that it all came apart

at the seams.

a winter cake

the sky is layered.

it's a new

work of art this morning.

a winter cake of

several shades

of blue,

white

and greys, all playing

a part.

above the trees,

below on old snow,

between

bare limbs.

the light comes through

the window.

and makes me

stand there

for longer than i usually

do,

letting it sink in.

finding what needs to be found

i see a purse

on the counter.

someone has left it there.

it looks expensive.

black leather

with a silver

snap.

i look around the 

crowded coffee

shop

and immediately

know who's it is.

a woman in the back,

reading.

i bring it to her.

she says

thank you, thank you.

everything important

to me is in

there.

how did you know

it was mine?

i shrug.

i don't know how,

beats me, i just did

covering your tracks

the good thing

about the passing of time

is that

you get to rewrite

your life

what was once non fiction

is now fiction.

who's to know

the facts.

people move on, people

die.

you can easily cover

up your tracks.

make stuff up.

put yourself in a brighter

light.

after awhile

you don't even remember

what was true.

no one is the wiser.

no one remembers

what a dope you were.

they haven't got

a clue.

just you.

chasing you around the kitchen

i decide to slow

things down.

to start living my life

a half

day at a time.

no more two days at a time,

or one day.

i'm doing a half day

from here on out.

i figure out

the twelve hours

where i'm going to cooperate

with the world.

phone calls,

work.

etc. but the other twelve

will involve

sleep

and entertainment,

chasing you around

the kitchen.

stuff like that.

never say never

we compare notes.

kids,

jobs,

how many times married,

i show

her the scars

on my face

from rice being thrown

at me so many

times.

she shows me

the scar

on her foot from an ill

fitted wedding

shoe.

we laugh,

we drink. and both say

at the same

time. never again. never.

i show her my ring

finger

where they had to saw

off my

unmovable ring.

she opens her purse

and shows me

a handful

of diamond engagement

rings and laughs.

my retirement, she says.

suckers.

we clink glasses together.

she may be the one.

birthday month

women do birthday

month.

men

ignore it

for the most part.

please don't get me

anything.

it's just another day

on the calendar page.

women plan

their own party.

buy their own balloons,

announce it

everywhere they go.

every friend within reach

eventually knows.

men shrug

and say, i don't really care,

maybe i'll open a can

of beans,

and watch a game

in the big chair.

90837

i miss

going to therapy.

we were making so much progress.

me blaming

everyone but myself

for the way i've behaved

and her enjoying my childhood tales.

i liked asking

her at the end of every session,

so what have we 

learned today.

and she'd laugh and laugh,

while writing out my slip

of paper with the coded

diagnosis, 90837, and her

putting the other hand out

for pay.

we don't agree anymore

we don't see eye to eye

anymore,

it's not like 

it to used to be when

we were young

and dumb,

and drinking.

rarely did we disagree,

but we've aged now,

sober

and smarter,

more read,

more wise. we're actually

using our brains now

not for chasing skirts

and money, but

for rational

debate

and thinking.

unexpected joy

as you stretch

out

in the white tub,

bathing

in steam,

i lie in bed 

and listen to you sing,

i wonder

what other

unexpected joys

can this day bring.

a bag of tomatoes

when my father 

had a garden

he was

proud of his tomatoes,

his beans,

his lettuce.

the rabbit fence strung tight

around the small

square of yard

to protect them.

he'd fill a paper bag

of red

tomatoes, and say here,

here, take these

before you go,

a gift of sorts,

trying to make up for

so many

unspoken things.

city life

we hear the alarm

of a car,

but don't budge, we hear

sirens

down the road,

we hear wind,

we hear babies crying,

dogs barking.

in the alley we hear

a cry for help,

a gunshot,

a scream, a shout,

but we don't move an inch.

we're used this city life

by now.

baby it's cold outside

my hands are cold,

my feet,

there's snow on the ground.

ice

on the streets.

the sky is full of wind,

tossing clouds around

birds shiver

in their feathers,

swaying on the trees.

but not you.

you're  a true fire, curled

warm with

a heated heart

lying here

next to me.

own up

maybe everything

we do

is not an accident,

but

is on purpose.

what comes out of our

mouths,

our actions,

our behaviors.

but we blame so much

of it on

circumstances.

childhoods.

we weren't hugged enough

as a child.

the weather,

stress, work. the list

is endless

explaining our behavior.

he did this,

she cheated

she lied.

i'm only human, is a good

one too.

but in the end,

we did this.

we said this. 

stop saying you're sorry

and just grow up

and

own up.

it's never too late.

the chicken soup diaries

she tells me,

i'm tired, can we do this another

night.

i might have a little

cold. i'm

really worn out,

it was a long

week.

i hear a slight cough,

then i pull the phone

away from my ear.

i stare at it.

i know what this means.

it's over.

we're done.

no sugar tonight,

no sugar tomorrow.

it's curtains.

but i play along, okay.

alright.

i hope you feel better.

i could bring over some chicken

soup if you'd like.

oh, no she says,

please. that's so nice,

but no. i'm fine.

we'll do this another time,

okay.

at this point i'm in no

man's land.

i can't react, i just go for it

and say

have a good and restful 

night.

a month goes by.

i catch a glimpse of her

in the grocery

store, then see her

running out to her car

in the parking lot.

i nod. yup. 

just what i thought.

i put some chicken soup

into my cart.

you need more friends of color

why don't you have any

black friends

on facebook,  my lily white

girlfriend

Penelope asks me,

or asians,

or native americans.

my eyes widen.

i don't know, i tell her.

yikes.

i guess i should work on that.

diversify.

yes, you should, she says.

i have six

african american friends,

and two friends

from china. i even have

a Muslim friend.

really?

how did you get them?

it's who i am, she says.

i love all people.

so do i, so do i. 

it doesn't seem like you do.

you don't have one person

of color

on any of your social media

platforms.

or with a different set of beliefs.

zero. you should really

work on that.

you really need to evolve

if you want to remain

my friend.

okay, okay. but

i follow Obama on Instagram,

does that count?

no.

okay. okay.

it will be my new year resolution.

when the waitress

comes back i'm going to ask

her to friend me

on facebook.

i think she's Armenian.

the full length mirror

i give up

on the full-length mirror.

i've had enough

of me.

okay, i get it now.

why remind

myself after

getting out of the shower.

i know how to

tie a tie

when i need to.

no need to stand

there and

brush off lint anymore,

i'm not going

anywhere where lint

matters.

i can see my shoes

just fine.

look at me

it is the age

of look at me, i'm special.

i'm important

and must be listened to.

watch me as i

dance

and sing.

shine the light on me.

no shy

ones in the bunch,

no quiet ones,

no blushing flower,

no one in the wings,

just stars with

no shame,

no humility.

Plan Z

i'm no longer on plan B

with my life,

or C

or D

for that matter.

i'm way down the list

of letters.

getting closer and closer

to Plan Z.

just one more swipe

it might be sugar,

or food,

or a pill, some

drug you

use.

it might be drink,

or sex,  a cigarette,

or tik tok

or you tube.

it's hard to know

what 

keeps you coming

back for more,

beyond your

control.

we all are looking

for something

that soothes.

the ride home

we take the long way home,

the scenic

route.

past the old school.

the abandoned warehouse.

the lake,

where we

used to walk.

we go around and around,

silently, almost

remembering

when it was so easy

to laugh,

to talk.

but she had other plans

i married

when i was too young

for it.

selfish

and self absorbed with

my new

life.

wings not yet

formed

but wanting to fly.

and then

again

i took the leap, much

older,

wiser,

thinking i was ready to

make this one

for keeps.

but she had other plans.

getting over on the man

my father at 93 would

cut out

coupons for things he didn't

need.

feminine products.

baby

formula.

diapers, hair dye,

that sort of thing

and take them to the commissary

where his guy,

his buddy

from some ship he

used to be on

would ring them

up on

a bottle of wine,

vitamins

and prunes.

cakes and pies.

two kids, they were,

getting over on the man.

giggling

like schoolgirls,

the whole time.

office depot haul

i head up

to the stationary store

to buy

a new calendar

for the new year.

what will it be this time.

landscapes.

the ocean.

cities,

or women frolicking

in bikinis on the beach.

it's an easy choice.

one to pin on the wall

near the desk

and one for the kitchen,

cathedrals in Europe

for there.

i put

some pens, some typing

paper into the cart,

a small bottle of white

out.

i look at the staplers,

blue, green and red,

mint green,

oh my,

picking them up, then

setting them back down.

and press on

to the ink cartridges, passing

by the printers

and computers,

three of them at home

seems to

be enough.

there's a big plastic barrel

of caramel corn

near the register,

i have a clerk help me

with that.

i'm done.

a smidgen of hope

when you see real art,

true art,

it's magical.

transforming. you suddenly

have more

faith in the world,

in people.

whether it's music,

or a painting.

the written word,

or finding

a person full of empathy

and compassion.

such beauty 

gives you

a smidgen of hope

that all is not forsaken.

an imperfect God?

i don't know

many people who still believe

in God.

what with all the killing

and mayhem,

natural disasters.

they say, yeah, there's

probably something

out there,

some power, larger

than us.

but God. give me a break

he doesn't seem to be doing

a very good job.

the whole Jesus thing.

the virgin Mary,

the resurrection,

what have you been drinking?

the Bible?

old stories written

on papyrus

to control the masses.

Jonah and the whale,

Moses parting the Red Sea.

come on man.

really?

what's up with the Pope's hat?

heaven and hell?

and i'm like yeah,

i know, i know, but

i'm drinking that Kool-Aid

until you come up

with something better.

rude awakenings

the sun.

oh sun. please. so soon?

i feel like

my night has just begun.

i had too much

to drink,

and here you are.

dancing

in my eyes.

why?

we used to be such

good friends.

your warm hand upon

me, but

not now, not now please.

go away

and let me sleep, turn

off the light

and

give me just one more

hour.

the fire fly

she would pick

me up

in her bug and take me to

the cemetery

to read poetry

and make love.

she was strange like that.

wild eyed

and bright.

her heart as dark

as mine.

a flash of light in the sky.

never to be forgotten.

a firefly.

we had nothing in common

in truth,

we had nothing in common.

for me

it was strong coffee,

for her

herbal tea

with a lemon

squeeze.

i wanted red meat,

she wanted

salmon

and green leaves.

i liked to make love,

at night,

or the early morning,

perhaps indulge

in a late night

soiree.

she didn't.

i liked to write and read,

she liked

to text on her phone

long into the night.

i admired Monet

and Picasso,

she was drawn more

to shoes

and clothes.

a sale at the mall.

i'm surprised it lasted

as long as it

did.

twelve months and gone.

in another life

careful he is

from bed

to door, to bath.

the robe tied on,

then down

the stairs, the hall,

a light switched

bright

with the other

hand.

easy he goes, descending

the deep flight,

holding the rail.

and there is the cat

on the kitchen sill.

in the winters light.

curled

and patient,

purring gently,

like a love he once

had

in another life.

i'm tired of doing nothing

doing nothing makes

me more tired

than doing a lot of things.

work all day.

no problem. but if i

lie around until ten,

with coffee

and a paper, and i'm

exhausted.

i can hardly keep my chin

up as i stare out the window

into the enormous

blank page of grey.

maybe some sit ups would help.

or running up and down

the stairs,

maybe i could go out

and scrape the ice

off the windows once more,

maybe.

or maybe i'll just lie down

right here, 

and leave the door unlocked

in case you

want to come by again.

light a fire,

we could make smores.

the invisible haunting

the invisible haunts

us.

the unseen,

the untouched

the vanished.

just out of reach.

call them thoughts.

memories

with claws dug deep

into the soft

parts

of your psyche.

it's the shadow world,

the creak of wood,

the bang

of wind against the house,

the howl.

the snapping

of limbs

in the old tree, footsteps

in the snow,

foraging out.

press three for an agent

the power goes out

for nearly twenty hours

and then

finally goes back on

the next day.

but it's not reflected

in my electric bill.

i call them up.

press one for an outage,

press two for

a power line down.

press three for billing.

i press three.

if you want to pay your

bill over the phone,

press one.

if you've changed your

billing address

press two.

if you'd like to talk

to an operator,

press three.

i press three.

if you'd like to hang

on the line,

press one.

if you'd like us to call

you back, press two.

if you'd like to visit our

website press three.

there's a long musical pause.

if you're still here,

please

press four.

i press four.

then a dial tone.

shhh, i'm thinking

i start thinking about

think tanks.

when someone says i work

for a think tank

and tells me it's non profit,

i say, really.

you sit around a table

and think all day

and you're not making

any money.

what's the world coming to.

so what do you think about?

they usually shrug.

you know, stuff.

world hunger, poverty,

the environment.

asteroids hitting the earth.

things that are never going

to happen, or change

for the better.

do you get a headache

thinking all day

about things you can't do

anything about.

yeah, sometimes.

but we take a lot of breaks

and if it's nice

out we open a window to let

some air in.

April is wide open

i smooth out some wrinkles

in a

relationship

heading south,

using small talk

and asking questions

of a personal nature,

showing that deep down

inside this crusty exterior

there's an empathetic

soul inside.

she buys it.

she asks me what are you

doing now.

lunch, maybe?

take a walk.

i get out my list of excuses.

snow,

a cold.

wind.

errands to do.

bills, ironing socks,

etc.

and push down on the snow

button.

yeah, she says. the roads

are treacherous.

i repeat the word treacherous,

and tell her

that April is wide open.

flocks of sheep

beware of the cookie bakers,

the church goers,

the moral high ground,

the recyclers,

the marchers, the feminists,

the right wing extremists,

the left wing too.

beware of know it alls.

and those that live 

off go fund me.

beware of the purveyors of hashtags.

beware of charity, of beggars,

and priests.

the culture cancellers

beware of those with a halo.

those smiling wide

showing their teeth.

beware of good people.

of Ted Talks, of

those that pray publicly,

beware of

teetotalers and vegans, of

those that correct others.

the monitors, the politicians,

telling you what to watch,

what to read. what to eat.

beware of 

the so called innocent.

beware, beware all of you.

all flocks of sheep.

god bless the child who has his own

god bless the child that

has his

own

the song says.

so true.

no one wants to be old,

and to be old

and poor,

is worse.

and alone, is no way

to go out.

break even i submit.

spend

each penny

until there's nothing left

to give.

make more friends.

make love.

don't let the darkness

win.

around the fire

ah, what could have been

they say

around this fire.

their canes

touching the flames,

pushing the logs

to raise

the flames higher.

what could have been.

the one that got

away.

the one that stayed.

the memories are

wet

in the old men's eyes.

going quiet, going quiet

as the fire

dies.

the night of good dreams

i lie inside

the milk of moonlight

poured

cold

and fresh upon this bed.

the window

wide.

the curtains drawn.

the lights

off except those coming

from the near stars

and beyond.

it's a night of good dreams

i believe,

before having one.

stay busy

it's good to have errands.

to tell others

that you're busy.

the run to 

the grocery store,

the post office,

the oil change.

i voted today you say,

pointing at your sticker.

there is always something

to do.

somewhere to go.

don't dare be idle for a

single second.

what will they think,

if you have no life

too.

i want four tires

i'm at the auto center.

the family owned one with the

air balloon guy shaking 

spasmodically in the wind.

it's 7 am. i figure i can get in and get

out. the first one there.

i tell the kid with the hair bun,

i want four new tires.

all season,

all weather.

the ones in the paper, buy

two, get two free.

i shake the paper in front of him,

like the old man i am.

the first time

he's seen the inside of a newspaper

since he lined

the bottom of his mother's

parakeet cage.

we don't have those tires anymore.

we ran out two months

ago.

so why are you still running

the ad?

i don't know. Covid i guess.

he shrugs and scratches

his stomach.

what?

well give me the ones you have.

four, all season,

all weather, etc.  like the pictures

you have on the wall.

i point to the photo of a tire

in a large matted frame.

like that one.

okay.

we'll have to order them.

what do you mean order them?

aren't you a tire store, a garage,

with tools and lifts

and grease guns, etc. the name

of your store is

Springfield Tire Center.

yes. but we don't keep tires in

stock.

that's crazy. that's like dominoes

not having dough

to make pizzas. starbucks not

having beans to make

coffee.

he shrugs again. his face as blank

as a snow drift.

i'm giving him my best material

and i'm

getting nothing back.

do you want me to order four tires for you?

they can be here by Wednesday.  8 am.

sure. make my appointment.

i shake my head, then get on the phone

to rearrange my life

for new tires. 

(which takes about ten seconds)

8am. Wednesday.  i'm in line.

830 am Wednesday still in line.

9 am Wednesday i'm next.

do you have an appointment?

yes. for 8 am. today.

what's your name?  what are you here

for?

i mumble the Jesus prayer under my breath.

and snap the rubber band

on my wrist that my therapist gave me.

for tires. i'm here for 

four tires.  i almost

say four fucking tires, but don't.

although enjoying the alliteration. 

there's a pregnant woman with a stroller

behind me, holding a crying one year old,

a yellowish spittle on her shoulder.

oh, yes. here you are. Eugene spelled

your name wrong. he spelled it with an S

not a C.

are you going to wait?

yes.

okay, please have a seat over there.

he walks me over to the

the four foot square 'lounge', then

points to the bottles of water on the counter.

enjoy our selection of periodicals,

he says.

there's a tv near the ceiling playing

an episode of the golden girls,

fortunately with the sound turned down.

can you change that, i ask him?

i don't like that Bea Arthur woman.

ummm. sorry, no.

we lost the remote, he says, then goes away.

i slouch down into a plastic chair,

exhausted. i look in my pocket for some

gum, or something. nothing.

one old pistachio still in its shell.

i save it.

10 am.

excuse me sir. sorry to trouble you,

but we can't get your tires off the car.

do you have your lug nut lock with you?

my what?

you have locks on your wheels.

we need that specific lock to remove

them.  do you have it at home?

no. i go to my car and search for

locks. i have no memory

of locks or what a lock might look like.

we can cut them off. but

it will damage the old bolts.

okay.

cut them off. i don't care.

200 dollars more.

i don't care. cut them off. i want

my new tires and i want to get out of here.

by the way, he asks, how much does

your car weigh?

our lifts can only lift a certain weight.

i have no idea, i tell him. can you try to lift it?

i have a basketball in the trunk i can take that out,

and a picnic basket with a blanket.

i may have left some hard boiled

eggs in there too, so there might be a bad smell.

long story, but not much else is in there.

no worries. okay. we'll give a shot

and keep our fingers crossed.

thank you. i give him the thumbs up

and a churchill V for victory sign, or

peace, or something.

he looks confused.

11 am

the lug nut locks still not delivered from the

store fifty yards away from the garage.

sir, would you like some coffee?

i look over at the coffee machine, a cold

pot of mud, sitting next to dixie cups and plastic

spoons. the powdered creamer lying on its side.

no. i look up at the tv, the golden girls

marathon still on. the girls are arguing

over something. surprise.

12 am.  the lug nut locks have arrived.

the kid comes over to

whisper to me.

we have the lug nuts sir.

1245

i'm reading an Essence magazine from 2003

with Oprah on the front,

after finishing

reading three sports illustrated magazines

from 2010.

none of them the swimsuit issue.

excuse me, sir. but what air pressure do you want

in your tires?

the kid again, he's eating a sandwich.

smells like tuna, possibly

catfish.

what?

we can do 32 in the front and 30 psi in the rear.

or just go with 35 for all four tires.

a small piece of onion falls

from his mouth.

air is complimentary, unless you use the air

pump outside the garage.

okay then, 35, i tell him. let's go with 35 psi.

i take a deep breath, exhale. i stare

out the window

at cars riding by on tires. inflated tires.

1 pm.

excuse me sir, but i noticed your battery

has some corrosion, would you like us to .....

yes. replace it.

2pm

excuse me sir, just one more thing.

your power steering fluid is cloudy.

i reach into my coat pocket pretending

that i have a gun.

he backs away and hurries to my car,

pulling it out to the parking lot.

230 pm

i'm at the window.

trouble with the credit card system.

the manager comes over,

the owner walks in,

they shake the register, unplug 

and reboot it.

a woman i've never seen before comes

out of nowhere

and lies on the floor.

she gets a pinch out of 

an orange wire,

then slaps her hands together 

and says loudly, Men, before

disappearing again.

the credit card machine makes a buzzing noise,

then a long hum. all is well.

i rub my eyes and say the Jesus prayer

again. i cross myself.

i put my credit card in. scribble my

mark on the little window, then

pull it out.

all done, sir.

great,  i say, resisting sarcasm, but with

little luck.

they hand me my key, the nine sheets

of paper work and receipts.

stapled or folded, the kid asks me.

stapled, i say. or folded. you decide.

can you do both?

sure, no problem..

i watch him trying to fold the papers

together.

he's having difficulty with it.

just stapled is fine, i tell him,

reaching over to take them.

buttoning my jacket,

i take a long look around before

leaving.

the garage bays, the seating area,

the pictures of tires

on the wall. tires they don't have.

i glance at Bea Arthur on

the tv screen., sigh,

then head

for the door.

stay warm out there, sir.

have a nice day. and if you decide on

that power steering fluid

give us a call.

you bet. i yell back. you bet.

i need a new hobby

i need a hobby.

i'm writing too much.

repeating myself.

beating all the dead horses

that litter

the years

of my life.

i need a vacation too.

a beach,

a city

i've never been to.

i need to get lost

somewhere.

meet a stranger in a bar,

be in love for 24 hours.

no more,

no less.

i need a hobby.

maybe stamps, maybe

there's something out there

besides

old girlfriends

that i can collect.

hotel sheets

is there anything better

than a freshly

made  bed

with cool blue cotton

sheets, 1000 count,

brand new,

pillow cases too.

the bed made, just

waiting for me

and hopefully you.

whispering my name

in the dim light of day.

see you soon, i tell her.

i give her wink,

and brush my hand

across her folds,

i caress the edges

of her hem,

tucking them in.

soon, i tell her, be 

patient, soon.

dropping the ball

i think we broke up 

for good

this time.

no calls.

no text.

no emails.

i wonder what happened.

where did i go wrong.

how did i drop

the ball.

yes.

it does feel like de ja vu

all over again.

my monkey youth

i could do chin ups

all day long,

push ups,

climb the rope without

using my legs

all the way to the top

of the gymnasium ceiling.

i could leap

over the horse,

circle the track

like a gazelle,

swing like a chimp on

the rings.

and now i look across

the street both ways

and wonder

if i can make it

to the other side 

before

the traffic once more

begins.

we all need a butter churn

i think people were

more thoughtful, more philosophical

when they

had to churn butter,

or milk a cow,

or plow the lower forty.

you had all that time to think

things through.

there was more time

for reflection

when you

had chores to do.

fixing the pig pen,

shearing the sheep,

sewing another patch on 

a pair of trousers,

or greyed sheet.

sometimes it would take

all day

to climb up onto the barn

roof and hammer down

a board,

or straighten out the weather

vane.

and at the end of the day,

there was no energy,

no desire

to sit around and complain.

whatever was bothering you

was gone.

sorry, i need to block you

i go through my list of blocked

numbers.

scammers,

salesman,

old lovers, potential

trouble.

some i remember,

some i have no clue.

i look at your

number and laugh,

of course

not dialing.

i assume you've blocked

me too.

home cooking

not everything

is home

cooking

seasoned to taste.

stirred

and added to the point

of being just

right.

sometimes you have

to leave

the comfort of your

home,

your bed,

your life, and taste

the bitters,

the overly sweet,

the soured

dish,

or fruit unripe.

what love should be

it is on days like

this that i

see her hands

pushing a bowl in front

of me as

i sit,

still cold from the snow

and sledding

down

the hills behind our house.

i see her hands

push the hot meal

before me.

i smell the heaven

of stew,

the onions and potatoes,

the carrots.

it's not love, but it feels

so much like

what love should be.

a fine way to go

i find an open field

of fresh snow

to lie down in. 

it's pristine.

the trees are full,

the wind is soft

and cold.

a chandelier of stars

swings above me.

if this was the end,

i could deal with it.

left frozen here

with a smile

on my flushed face,

a fine way to go.

chelsea

i see her sometimes.

the daughter

i never had.

i see her face, her green eyes

like mine,

her sweetness.

i feel the love she has

for her father.

the warmth of her smile,

that grin.

i hear her soft

voice on the phone,

read it in the words she

writes.

telling me, i love you

dad. i miss you,

it won't be long, before

i'm home.

who was she?

i read about the man

who leaped

off the highest point of the bridge.

the dark water

below

and rocks did not

welcome him

kindly.

what brought

him to climb over the rail

on that cold

night.

with the stars out.

the city lit with christmas.

what reason

was there.

who was she?

the unearthly greens

i think of the jungle.

the thick

growth of bush and trees,

the vines

and bramble,

the black earth

below

the unearthly greens.

the white stones of the beach

once through.

i think of

what could have been.

being lost

forever, never finding

what's true.

across the lake

i find the picture

in an old

roll of film, forgotten

in a drawer.

i'm surprised at what i find.

your face,

unseen,

hair across your shoulders,

sitting in front

of the boat,

me at the oars.

the water dark

without sun,

the white of wind

in waves.

it's me rowing towards

shore,

your shadow

a cold and portent

shade.

iron and steel

so much

has been soft metal.

bent

and torn,

melted in the heat.

my spine

a spindle of foil,

twisted

into every direction

she wanted

me to keep.

and now you wonder

why

i'm made

of iron and steel,

unmovable

no matter what words

you speak.

what's true

we have favorites,

the black

sweater,

the jeans.

that yellow dress

you wore

when

we first met.

we have places.

drinks,

food.

favorites, all, 

music.

they mix in with what's

good.

what's true.

it's clear to me

i don't need

your hand to read,

or a pack

cards,

or a crystal ball

to know and see where

you've been.

it's clear

as i witness the tears

that slip

down your cheeks,

wiped against

my sleeve.

with each new sun

i wondered how

things

could be done,

how a man or woman

could

stand

and work all day,

to shovel

or carry the load

they've chosen,

rising

with each new sun.

i wondered how

was it possible

to live a life

such as that, but i see

now.

i see clearly, as

i stand

at the door, looking

back.

today is no exception

today is no exception.

there is no

asterisk

beside the number

or name.

it's an ordinary day,

like the one

before it

and the one yet

yet to come.

people will die.

babies will be born.

love will be made,

hate will arrive.

all things will become

new and old 

at the same time.

the last page

she bought tickets

to go

see

the irish poet.

but he

died

before we arrived.

it was in the paper,

a small

square

on the last page.

his picture.

a line or two

of a poem

he wrote when he

was still

alive.

i imagine he's still

at it.

with a similar

audience

no doubt.

listening at times is hard

some people,

their lives a wreck from

side to side,

top

to bottom,

decide to give you advice

on what you

should do next.

trying to straighten

out the wrinkles

of your life.

you listen.

you nod.

you let them go on and on,

as if

what their 

saying is right.

you let them have

their say,

and then you go home,

and rejoice

at the silence of the night.

stay put for now

the itch

to move, to go south

gets under

your skin

for a few hours.

usually in times like now.

with

the earth

frozen,

the snow knee deep.

no way

to get out.

and then it passes.

change

is good.

i don't see change

in the panhandle.

i don't

see the turning of leaves,

the plume

of smoke,

the breath of new

air

come spring.

so i'll stay, 

at least for now.

songs from another age

i slip

the black disc

from its sleeve.

worn

and tattered.

stained.

it's a record i've

played

endlessly in my younger

days.

lying on the couch,

or bed.

listening

to the granular

music escape.

knowing when to rise

to lift the needle

from the skip.

i know every word.

it's a friend

that i'll never

leave.

the dry cleaners

i see no joy

at the dry cleaners.

the line

of patrons holding gowns

or suits,

dresses.

the party is long over.

it's just a matter

of getting

out the stains now,

such as memories

are.

like confession,

guilt soon

gone.

snow storm

the bowl

of earth

upended in white,

the new

elephants of cars.

the thickened

trees.

the sky no different

than the ground.

we are in

it now,

aren't we?

forward

there is no other way

around.

april seems like

a far away

dream.

the first ones out

the first ones

out

have cleared their sidewalks,

their cars,

they've shoveled

and plowed

before the slightest

light of day

has shone.

i look out the window

and they wave.

broom in hand,

shovel,

scrapper for the car.

a bag of salt.

the wife comes out with

another round

of hot chocolate, she

waves too, as

i wonder where my

mittens are.

all these books

these books

will not survive. the pages

will yellow,

the binding

will fail.

all these words will

fall

through the crevices

of time.

but we will

remember what was,

won't we?

the tender kiss,

the gentle

smile.

the treasure of each

other that we

found.

my new assistant sasha

i hire an assistant

to help

with whatever needs to be done

around the house.

laundry,

cooking,

massages and putting lotions

on my back

after a gentle 

scratch.

she's from sweden

and doesn't speak a word

of english.

which is fine.

keeps the small talk down

to a minimum.

we communicate

in the way that jane goodall

would with her

primates.

thirst, hunger, sleep.

a big smile for happy.

a lot of hand motions

and facial expressions.

she's not a good cook

and she refuses to change the oil

in my car,

or do my taxes, but

for now it's working out.

she's in the kitchen now

making strudel.

the heavy snow

when i see snow coming

down

like this,

already a foot on

the ground,

i immediately think

of eggs

and bacon.

hash browns. two slices

of whole wheat

toast with jam.

a glass of juice

and a hot cup of coffee.

and you of course

coming down

the stairs in your 

christmas nightgown.

selective memory

i lack selective

memory.

i remember it all.

it weighs me down at times.

each word,

each sigh, each glance.

i wish i could

shake the box

and erase.

start from scratch

with the dials,

turning left and right.

a clean screen

for the new year would

be nice.

they mean well

my hands

are dirty. there are specks

of paint

and debris

embedded in the skin.

beneath the nails.

there are

cuts

and scrapes.

wounds,

some healed, some

new.

they are my hands.

the hands

i use

to cook, to clean,

to turn pages in books,

to write with.

hands that i place

in yours,

hands that i move slowly

across your skin,

or use to touch your

beautiful face.

forgive my

hands, they mean well.

truly, they do.

i enter the room

i enter the room

and find

a chair, it may not be the right

chair for me

but i take it

and sit.

the room is dark.

a small window

lets in what little

light there is from

the moon.

i'm alone.

it's my birth.

the beginning of the end.

i will

become part of it

once more.

it's as if i've always

known

the truth

about everything.

i have forgotten nothing.

i will

embrace the day

as if there's hope.

i will vow to say less

and to listen

more.

there is so much left

to learn.

distractions

the distraction

of light

and color,

of sound

keeping us busy

with less important

things.

we do fly into

the pleasures

that life provides.

not often

for our own good,

but down

a wrong path,

towards

a soured demise.

i need a cookie

it feels like sunday

again, i tell her.

because it is, she says.

look. she holds

her phone up.

see.

see.

pushing it towards my

unshaven face.

it's sunday.

yesterday was saturday.

etc.

why are you

so mean in the morning,

i ask her.

i don't know

she says.

i need coffee.

maybe we should go for

a walk

get out of these

pajamas.

we've been in them for week.

are there

anymore christmas cookies

left?

i need a sugar cookie.

look at my hand.

it's shaking.

i hope you understand

if someone

put a gun to my head,

or set out a million dollars

in cash

in front of me,

or promised

to save the world

from hunger

and bring peace

to every land.

i still wouldn't

say i do again.

i hope you understand.

unmovable

i get it.

that holidays bring out the sadness

in many

people.

that want their

lives to be different

somehow.

they want others to behave

better.

it's impossible.

the woe is me is too

strong,

too deep in them.

still stuck

in the unmovable past,

victims

for another year.

the long party

we hang on to youth

as long as

we can, 

with creams and lotions,

blonding our hair,

exercising

at dawn. swallowing

handfuls of vitamins,

eating carrots 

and lettuce 

like hamsters

going round

and round.

and then we don't

care as  much anymore.

the hell with it, we say.

i'm old. i'm grey.

my skin is like

parchment.

these wrinkles

last all day. i'm tired

and in bed

by ten. we count

our blessing and submit

a prayer.

ah, but the fun we

had, the riotous

life, the long nights,

the amazing days.

immortality seemed

possible and 

we believed that the party

would never end.

no one can take

that away.

the five year old

i learn something from the five

year old

i'm sitting next to

at christmas dinner.

he mixes all his peas into

his mashed potatoes.

the gravy too,

the cranberry sauce,

the stuffing.

it's one big pile of goo.

he looks at me

and smiles as he takes

a bite, a slice of

turkey still in his mouth

unchewed.

i do the same, but with a

long swig of gin and tonic

beforehand.

the blessing of hunger

to know

lack is a blessing.

to be hungry,

to be penniless,

to be threadbare

with holes in your

shoes

is golden.

to sleep on a hard

shared bed,

to be cold

in winter,

to be without a fan

in summer,

to eat

every meal

at the small table

in the kitchen,

not asking what,

but when.

all blessings. all lessons

learned,

with wisdom

arriving

when at last it ends.

her hands in dough

i fall in love with the woman

baking

bread

at wegman's.

she's wearing a tall white

hat, fluffed

just so. the dust of flour

on her face.

an apron is strung

tightly

around her slender neck.

her hands are pink from

kneading dough,

i imagine if i could

get close enough

that she'd smell like cinnamon,

or nutmeg.

a jelly roll.

she smiles at me when

i stop

to watch her take hot loaves,

still steaming,

off the racks.

i squeeze the muffins she

just set out

and wink. 

my heart leaps when

she winks back.

picking the plums now

we say

in age, now i'm just picking

the plums

from the tree.

the fat juicy

plums

reachable with a stretched

arm.

we leave the high

ones be.

the ones on the ground

scattered

we walk around,

leaving them

for birds,

for animals, for 

hungrier mouths,

for bees.

nothing good comes to mind

where once i couldn't

get you out

of my mind,

i now have

to force myself to remember

you.

nothing good

or kind

returns.

no act of love, no

kiss.

no meal shared, no memory

of joy arises.

it's strange how

our brains return

so often

to the scene of a crime,

staring at the scar

now healed

in time.

and then they scratch

are not women

not cats,

so hard to understand.

so needy

and yet, not.

curious and aloof

in the same

breath.

secretive and brazen

with

the arched back,

the seductive

eyes made up.

they slink, they rise,

they curl

lovingly into your lap

for a soft stroke,

and then

they scratch.

a prayerful knot

i slip into the side

door

of  st. bernadette's

and find

an empty pew

in the back. stage right.

i hit my knees

on the soft kneeler,

tie my fingers

together

in a prayerful knot

and confess my sins

in the direction 

of where i presume

sits God.

listening once

more to my same old

story,

hoping again

that he'll let me off.

a good year so far

ten minutes in.

it's been a good year so far.

best not

turn on the news,

or read the paper,

or answer the phone.

i think i'll

burrow

into the house, the couch,

or bed,

my cocoon,

and keep it this way

for a while.

a few people

a few people 

still give me faith in the world.

it's not lost quite yet.

there are those,

the stragglers

of good will

and honesty out there,

holding tightly onto

compassion,

but so few.

so few.

a cameo appearance

it's a strange dream

but with a familiar cast of characters.

old friends,

and lovers.

a dog,

a cat.

even you

make an appearance,

a cameo,

one might say.

a few lines, a dramatic

turn

of events,

then poof,

once more you're gone.

sorry, but it's time

the christmas tree

gives me a look when i finally

get home.

the near bare

branches

thirsting for water.

needles puddled

on the floor.

i'm sorry i tell her,

but it's time to go.

i unwrap the lights,

take the ornaments off,

but

i leave the tinsel on,

the angel

hair.

let her go out to the curb

with a little dignity,

a little bit of holiday spirit

still there.

the ball drops

as we

grill meat on the flame

and the smoke

alarm

rings,

she throws a grape

across the table

to my open mouth.

i pop the champagne.

we make a toast,

we yell,

we scream.

the alarm so persistent,

so loud,

the tv on.

i miss dick clark,

she says,

as the ball drops on

another year.

unlike real life

rolling on the tarmac,

gaining speed,

the plane

lifts gently into the clouds.

the window

seat is mine

as we glide along,

i see a smaller world

below me,

all troubles

left behind.

the wings 

hold steady

on this smooth ride,

so unlike

real life.

the world is scary

sometimes you go out

and it seems

that the world is full of

circus people,

carnival workers.

everyone looks strange.

oddly shaped,

bone thin,

or obese with

a look in their eye

like maybe they've escaped

from an asylum,

or cage.

planet nine?

the ink, the piercings,

the blue hair,

the leather and latex.

when did pajamas become

all day

wear.

just needed a reason

it was disagreeable weather.

the kind

of weather than makes

you shake

your head and say no,

when you open the door

and take a step out.

the chill running up your leg.

nah.

i'm staying in.

yes. i know i'm getting

married today,

the whole thing is planned

and she's waiting

at the altar,

but no.

i can't go out into this

cold and wind.

tupperware

slow.

let's take it slow.

no.

slower.

slower than that.

shhh.

say nothing.

let's keep our thoughts

to our self.

zip it.

why ruin things.

i'll bring

your tupperware

back.

the very short holiday visit

he wants

to talk politics. always.

he tells me

he's reading the constitution 

the magna carta

the bill of rights.

he's pondering

running for mayor, or

something

in his small town

of one hundred.

he says the police

are too scary,

they should wear pastel

colored clothes.

pinks and blues, soft greens,

and be armed

with water pistols.

more stimulus

checks, please.

more government

gifts.

everything should be free.

i yawn, and smile,

and ask

him where the remote

is.

i think there's a game on.

the world needs saving

has the world gone

dumb.

stupid,

are there no readers

left.

no scholars,

no one

looking up, or around

instead

of at their own

navel,

which is now

their phone?

it may be time for

the great

flood,

or for dr. strangelove

to drop

the bomb.

one way or

the other, the world

needs saving.

the trader joe haul

feeling a tad glum

and blue

my nose runny as i sneeze

into a handful

of thanksgiving napkins

i head up to trader joe's

for some soup.

chicken soup, minus the noodles,

you know,

this whole carb thing.

but then i pick up some

flowers to brighten

up the house,

a bottle of champagne,

some shrimp

and oysters. all about the zinc.

a jar of coconut oil,

some candles

in case a storm blows through.

then go to the check out

counter,

once i figure out which lane

to steer my cart.

do i stand here, push the cart

there, or do i zig zag

over to that register

where the girl

in chuck taylors and a

Hawaiian shirt stands?

Jimmy, a kid with a straight

pin through both eyebrows

and a tattoo of a dolphin

on his arm,

waves me over.

far out, he says. party tonight

eh?

candles, oh yeah.

coconut oil. chicks dig that.

you da man. bringing in 

the new year with a bang?

shut up, i tell him, or i'll

sneeze on you.

it's not that simple

i want people to work.

to get their hands

dirty, to join

the grind.

i don't

want them on the corner

begging.

i want

the lines to be shorter

in the soup

kitchens.

the shelters empty,

the tents to be gone.

take a job,

any job.

i whisper.

naively, simplistic

as always

with what's wrong.

if you were closer

if you were closer

we'd be in love

by now.

if we lived in the same

town?

maybe.

or perhaps we'd grow

tired of each 

other, as lovers often do.

would poetry

be enough

to see us through?

the end is near

masked

and blue gloved.

the hospital workers,

doctors, nurses,

go eyes forward

down and around

the patients.

finding a corner in the elevator,

mumbling

their floors, or

taking the stairs.

everything about them,

screams beware,

the end is near.

coming undone

who hasn't come undone,

fallen apart

at the seams.

crumbled like a stale

cookie

in soured cream.

who hasn't

fallen off the wall,

shattering shards

of thin shells

upon the street,

i raise my hand, both

hands in fact,

to it all.

the new portrait

i should settle down

again,

get married

to someone named muffy.

have a few kids.

a dog,

a cat,

a fenced in yard.

i could have new neighbors

who wave

to me and say

hello, how's

the wife, how's life,

i see you've

taken care of the weeds

in your yard.

i could have

norman rockwell come

over and paint

our porrtait.

this will be life

the way it's supposed to be.

we can send out

long holiday letters

telling all our friends

how wonderful

things are.

i can rewrite the whole story.

start over.

fresh and new.

but then again, on second

though, i'd never

have met

you.

a new flight of stairs

winter

reminds me of what i haven't

done.

the end of the year.

the books unread,

all the things i planned

on doing,

have gone

mostly undone.

i need your shove,

your push upon my back.

in fact, carry me up 

the new flight

of stairs

of another year,

together we'll find a way.

or not.

you go your way, and i'll go mine

i have wasted 

a lot of hours, spent a ridiculous

amount of time

on useless

endeavors.

but so what.

it's my life. my days

to wile away

as i see fit.

i'm past the point of being

pushed into

another direction,

of being 

admonished, or corrected.

i'm purposely, 

without purpose

on the path i've

chosen.

live with it, or don't.

the next snow drift

this snow.

knee deep as i plunge

one boot

after another

carrying a bag of groceries

up the yard.

i see you in the window,

at the sink, below

the yellow light,

your hands in

water.

you smile.

i return the smile, but

there's a part

of me that wants

to keep going,

to find another house,

another place to live,

somewhere

past the next snow drift,

i might find 

a different life.

being buttered up

when  someone wants

something

from you

they usually begin by buttering

you up.

oh my.

have you lost weight?

are you working out,

i've never seen you looking so

young and fit.

new love in your life?

tell me your secret.

i want what you're having,

they say, chuckling,

with a big smile.

then they ask you for a ride

to the airport

the next morning

at 5 a.m.

last meal requests

she asks me

what would be my last meal

if i was going to be executed the next

day.

what?

what crime did i commit, i ask her.

doesn't matter,

that's irrelevant.

wait.

wait a minute.

what possible crime would i do

that they would

put me in the electric chair.

she sighs.

oh brother.

just suppose, she says. just

imagine that you have one night

left on earth

and you can choose anything

you want for a last meal.

anything?

yes, she says, with exasperation.

anything.

hmmm.

maybe a standing rib roast

or tacos.

tacos?

yeah, i haven't had them in a while.

with hot sauce.

i stopped eating them because

of acid reflux, but

if i'm being executed the next day,

why not?

a little bit up and to the left

i start wondering why

my skin

is so itchy this winter.

i'm scratching at it all day.

rubbing up

against

the corner of a wall,

or sticking a wooden spoon

down my shirt

to get to that one unreachable

spot.

i pick up a stray cat on the street

and place it on my

back. 

when Lulabelle was

around, she took care of it

with her long

dagger nails.

but she be gone.

i google itchy skin

and tumble down that rabbit hole.

it's either

impending doom,

or nothing

but cold air.

Betty gives them four stars

i go up to the tire

store

to get four new tires for 

the truck.

i have a set picked out.

on sale.

i see the ad online.

where the rubber meets

the road it says.

yelp gives them four stars.

bob in mechanicsville

says they're the best tires he's

ever owned.

betty in spotsylvania county

claims

it's the softest ride

this side of her Serta bed.

wide, good traction

in rain, or snow.

of course they don't have that

particular tire anymore,

the ones i'm holding

a coupon on.

the man shrugs and taps

his greasy fingers

on the counter. Covid,

he says. Supply chain.

ya know?

but we do have this tire.

this one here.

the ones we never sell.

pull up over there

and we'll call you when

we're done.

i read the news today, o boy

i'm down

to the sports page,

a casual glance at scores

about games

i really no longer care about.

the metro section,

straight to the obits

to see who's bought

the farm.

the rest of the paper

i tear up

and put inside my hamster

cage.

at some point i'll get

a hamster.

there used to be a time

when i read the paper

everyday,

picking it up off the porch,

the cold baton

of news

freshly printed.

the black ink smudging

my eager hands,

but i'd almost rather not

know now

if the world is nearing

an end.

i have coffee

and a window, that's enough.

bamboo sheets

i should never have

bought

these ice blue bamboo sheets

800 hundred count.

i can't get out of bed

now.

bamboo, who knew.

i expected

splinters, or a cold

hard wood feel.

no siree bob.

they're as soft as, well,

you fill in the blank.

don't open that door

it's best not

to look under the bed

or in the medicine

cabinet.

best not

to open a shut door

to a closet,

or to open a drawer.

the temptation

to look at phone is there,

but don't.

it's better to not know

what's unknown.

we all have our secrets

that are best left

undiscovered.

to the moon alice

i find a foil packet

of atlantic

wild salmon

in the cupboard

behind a can

of lentil soup, both

left by a previous

short lived relationship.

i guess it's still

good. unspoiled

by time.

sealed with the look

of astronaut food.

ready for a moon

trip, or better yet

a one way trip to mars.

guys night out

guys night out is different

now.

it used to be wild

with drinking and dancing,

carousing

with dangerous girls,

almost women

with their fake i.d.'s

but now

howard

won't drive in the rain

or too far.

mark's neuropathy

is bothering him,

so he needs

a cane.

jerry is watching his

weight

and has special dietary needs.

jim is having trouble

with his third

wife, and can't stay out

past ten.

Elgin brings his coupons

and insists

on a booth

near a window to keep

an eye on his car.

Randy asks me on the phone,

what are you wearing,

will we be out late?