that pesky war

the war

is getting in the way of my life.

how dare they

start a war when

i'm about to

retire.

i can't buy

the new car i want.

i can't travel

to where i want to go.

my relationship with

Natasha in

Moscow, is nyet, no.

i don't know where

to put my money,

the stock market is at

an all time low.

then decide

you need

to see someone when the chips

are down.

without make up.

depressed and sad

over

a soap opera.

without a pretty dress on.

with a cold

and a runny nose.

maybe a bruised

knee,

a scraped elbow.

someone who's lost money

in the market,

dented her car.

you need to see her in

trouble, having a bad

hair day.

with a cake that didn't rise,

crying about having

gained an ounce

of weight.

once you get a peek at

that, then decide.

getting her hips around

i know nothing

about golf, but i tell her

that

maybe she's pushing off

her back foot,

and not

getting her hips around,

this seems to work,

as she shoots

under par on

the first nine holes.

when i meet her at the bar

in the clubhouse,

she's all smiles.

showing me the money

she won.

a fist full of Bemjamins

stuck

in her bra.

the four star Italian restaurant

it's a good restaurant,

you can tell.

all the workers

are fat

and happy.

the cooks,

the wait staff, even

the Maitre d

has 

a tire around him.

everyone's from the old

country.

it's hard to get a table,

you have

to make reservations

a week ahead

of time.

but it's worth it.

let's go.

put on your elastic 

waist band pants,

and i'll put

on mine.

questions first

before you leap

into the cold

water

to swim out to a drowning

person,

ask a few

questions first.

are you

crazy.

how did you get out there?

and if i save

you will

this happen again?

if i go out there will

you drag

me down with you?

how about i throw

you rope,

and you pull

yourself in?

the unhappy client

the unhappy

client

has been unhappy for a long time.

before

you were born.

i can see it,

feel

it in the dark house,

the low

lights.

fruit gone bad.

each day

dressed

in black.

it's not the work she's

upset about,

it's more than that,

and yet,

she wants me to come

back.

without mustard

after one nathan's hot dog,

cooked

on the grill,

i can't eat

the second.

nor can she.

so we fling

them over the fence,

end over end,

for the wolves,

the fox,

the rabid coyote.

we get no complaints.

the leaf blower

my friend,

the leaf blower,

can't hear anymore,

he says

what a lot.

i ask

him if he'd like

another drink.

he says what, cupping

his ear towards

my mouth.

he tells me the story

of how

he chased two

leaves for an hour

yesterday

trying to get them

into the truck.

what's left of the day

the weather

goes a long way

in putting a spring

your step,

or in

making you roll over

for another

ten minutes to

rest.

a peek out the window

shows

rain

and cold.

the day

can wait.

but soon

you'll rise and

seize

what's left of it.

it's not about that

it's not about

the line,

the weights, the lures,

the bait.

the strength of rod,

or how

well

the oiled reel spins.

nor is it about the waist

high boots.

the rising

at dawn, the long

walk through

familiar woods.

it's not about

the worms,

the beer, the small

chair

to rest on.

the sandwich.

the cigarettes.

it's not about casting out

into the calm

blue

water,

or the years of doing

the same

each spring beyond

summer.

a half mile

from the bridge

where

you went to school

and grew up,

and will never leave.

it's not about catching

anything.

it's not about that.

do you mr. jones?

not unlike

dylan,

i've gone electric.

the mower,

the toothbrush.

the new car.

judas

i hear the exxon man

say

as i beep the horn

and ride by.

judas?

i don't believe you,

i reply.

waving goodbye from the front porch

her

worries

are no longer my problem.

her broken

leg

and heart,

her insomnia,

her loss of hair, 

her blurred vision,

and 

forgetfulness,

her money issues,

it's all on her.

i clap my hands together,

and let out a

thankful

sigh.

waving my hand

in a joyful goodbye.

the beauty of the storm

the beauty of no electricity

is no

news.

the storm has

wiped out

the world beyond

you.

no more killings, no

more crime,

or break ins.

no more wars, or storms

at sea.

no floods

no fires. no famines

or plagues,

no troubles coming

into

your mind

via tv.

born to run

i don't belong

here,

she tells me, smoking

a cigarette

on the stoop. i'm a city girl

from

the bronx.

what am i doing here

in this

community

of old folks.

retired

and glum.

i don't know anyone,

or like

anyone.

i'm not supposed to be

here., she says again,

rubbing the tattoo

on her arm,

the ink blue and vague,

reading

born to run.

we can fix this

we can fix this.

we can

get the glue out.

the tape,

the hammer and nails.

we can restore

things back to when

they were new.

let's take our

time

to put it all back together.

like it was

in the old days,

me

and you.

the well kept lawn

you fall

asleep one night

and you

wake up an old man.

where did it go.

what was that about.

this

string of years.

the struggle, the joy,

the fear.

it seems overnight

somehow,

that it's here,

then gone,

like that.

just like that.

then you shake it off,

get up,

and go mow the lawn.

the machinery of living

i don't trust

elevators, or escalators,

or

buses,

or trains.

i worry in a car, not

trusting

the tires.

i feel that machines

will let

me down

at some point.

the furnace will die.

batteries

will lose power,

lights will go out,

things i have no control

over will strand me,

throw

off my day, my stride,

my life.

somewhere

you fit into this too.

when something is gone

before the ranger

can pull his gun, the coyote

from

the shadows

leaps

and bites his hand.

the slow

drip

of blood goes bright

against

the new snow.

the sick

beast snarling at his life

gone wrong,

knowing

perhaps

that death is near.

and it is

as the gun is drawn

the trigger pulled.

the winter birds leap

into the air, then

the woods grow quiet,

they're always

quiet

when something is gone.

give me the old movie

give me the old movie,

the slow

plot,

the black and white.

noir flicks,

the hitchcock.

give

me grant

and monroe, john garfield

and brando.

give

me bacall

and bogey.

cagney.

give me the old movie,

i want to hear

the flicker

of the film running

through

the projector

as i sit in my seat below,

entranced.

trying to get home

when

the old people stagger

out

and can't find their back home,

you wonder

when

it's your turn,

your turn

to spill your drink,

mumble,

and 

forget whatever it

is

you're trying

to remember.

and talk about.

you see them on the street,

beneath

the lamp post

of night.

in the bright sun,

in snow,

the wind.

sleet.

in their long coats, trying

to get back

to from they're from.

the single life

when the rescue dog

bites

your hand

as you reach out to pet it,

digging

his teeth into

your soft flesh,

drawing blood,

who's to blame?

the dog?

there's a reason the last

owner

put him on

a chain and set him loose.

be careful

of the stray dogs

you choose.

like it never happened

i'm prone to burn

things,

stacking them in a pyramid

in the grill,

spilling

lighter fluid

on the whole pile,

tossing in some

charcoal

for good measure.

i like the crackle

of paper

and photos.

the crunching and

cowering

of memories

going up in smoke.

the blue licks of flame,

some green,

some orange.

crimson music, taking

it all away

like it never happened.

the sunday getaway

they like

to travel, but not far.

a few miles

south or north.

they pack the dog up,

drinks,

and sandwiches,

they fold a blanket

and place it

in the trunk of the car.

we're off

they say.

throwing caution

to the wind

without a map, or plan.

a five mile

drive,

a sunday getaway.

hot peppers

you know what they will

do to you,

sliced peppers,

red or green,

hot

and raw,

drawing

beads of sweat on your

brow,

there's not

enough water to

quench the sting

and heat

of them.

and yet you can't resist

biting down,

no different,

than fast

women.

wildlife bites picnickers

they close

the trail down after a coyote

takes

a bite out of a few

picnickers

eating

cucumber sandwiches

along the water.

no bike ride today, i guess.

although i could

wear my

thickest jeans

and a sweatshirts,

a helmet

and leather gloves

to keep the beast

at bay.

maybe drag a ham

behind

me as i pedal to the lake.

side by side

one grave dug

and filled,

the other waiting

patiently,

the dirt carved out,

the stone

in storage.

the eulogy written

and practiced.

crossing the t's

and dotting the i's.

the black dress in

the closet,

the coat

and tie.

the hearse rented.

what's left,

just for the next one

to die.

cancel my subscription

it's sad

the demise of the local scribe,

the written word,

that slaps

onto your porch, a baton,

of hard

written news,

by professional

journalists, sitting with

coffee and cigarettes,

bent over their

machines,

typing

before the last edition rolls

off the press.

it's a thin

rag now,

a blather of opinions

leaning

right or left,

no middle to speak of.

they're a day late

and a dollar

short with everything now.

just the wall street journal

and new york

times are left.

and those too are read

with heaping

spill

of salt.

the young wife

since

1970, he tells me, he's

been on the move.

the navy

shipping him out all over

the world.

but this is it,

he says.

they can bury me

in the backyard when

i die.

i'll never move

again.

no more boxes, no more

trucks

and packing,

no more

changes of addresses.

this is the last time,

but his young wife

looks at him,

and smiles.

an average day

it was an average day,

low

humidity

in the 50's, a slight wind.

it was an

average conversation.

a give and take,

with

light talk, neither deep

or shallow,

no competition.

it was an average meal.

soft sandwiches.

drinks.

vanilla cones as we walked

along the boulevard.

and it was an

average kiss

we gave each other when

it was time to hug

and depart.

it was an average day.

the milk party

i can't get the cap

off the carton

of cream

so i give up and throw

it against

the wall,

it explodes in a

splash of milk.

the puddles

are everywhere.

the dog comes in.

the cat.

i open the door

for their friends to join

the party.

i get the cake

out

and have a slice.

the butterfly club of america

she belonged to the butterfly

club

of America.

the book

club.

the cooking class.

she ladled soup

down at the shelter,

helped out at the church

when help

was needed.

she danced on Thursday

nights.

she grew flowers in her

garden.

made stew in the winter.

she even put lipstick

on

for me.

lit candles 

and decorated a Christmas

tree.

there had to be a flaw 

somewhere.

remember those times

come over, we used to say.

come on up

to the house, stop by

when you're passing by.

ring the bell, 

we're here most

of the time.

it'd be good to see you again.

come over,

come up to the house.

we'll make some food,

drink some wine.

come over, we used to say.

come on up

to the house,

we were so much younger

then,

remember those times?

where childhood went

before

it begins. you know a truth.

you

know

who you are.

but years

make you unsure.

you

stumble

when times are dark.

grapple

for the light,

wondering where

childhood went.

it isn't

gone though.

it isn't too far.

uninvited

an uninvited

cold wind blows in.

strange,

so deep in summer

to feel

the hand

of  a cool breeze

down

shirt

up sleeve.

could the sky be any

bluer.

i don't think so.

i'll drink it in, before

going in

for the night.

the porch is home

as i sit here

to admire the trees

dancing

with delight.

my dog stepped on a bee

you can't make this stuff,

the court room drama,

between a celebrity

and his

one year borderline wife.

you want to ask what

happened to the poor

dog who stepped on a bee.

why did you use

the bed when you had

four bathrooms

in the penthouse?

does your neck hurt from

swiveling it from

side to side trying to gain

sympathy

with the jury, when everyone

could see your tearless

cry.

who's baby is it?

yours? who's the father?

is her name Tesla?

pictures and videos

of everything and

nothing.

not a single bruised

lip or black eye.

god forbid, oh look,

oh my,

there's a spilled bottle

of 500 dollar wine.

a circus, a carnival, a debacle,

a total waste of money and

time.

but, somehow, the crazy ones

always find

another person

to leech onto,

crazy in the head, as they say,

crazy in bed.

they do survive.

the dinner party conversation

what time is it

in Australia?

hold on let me google my

phone.

is that a blue

bird

on the window sill,

a turtle in the yard?

is that a turtle, what kind,

hold on,

let me 

look in my phone.

how old was

Lincoln when he died?

who won the oscar in 1969.

what are the odds

of an asteroid

hitting the earth?

hold on, let me google that.

why do we

have two lungs

and cows

four stomachs.

how do fish breathe

underwater.

is that blue cheese your

putting on the table?

can blue cheese go bad?

why is iceberg lettuce

so round?

hold on

does anyone here know

how long

it takes a turkey

to cook?

everyone replies, hold on,

let me look

on my phone.

still nothing there

i looked inside

the fridge an hour ago,

but maybe

i missed something.

maybe there's a slice

of cake,

or ice cream in there.

maybe behind the eggs,

or milk,

or lettuce,

there's a cookie waiting

for me,

a bar of chocolate

that i've forgotten about.

nope.

nothing, there, but

i'll try again later

to be sure.

pants on fire

why does

the news lie, or a friend,

or husband,

or wife.

the child

with crumbs on his shirt,

saying

what cookie jar

as he wipes

the chocolate

from his smile.

so easy,

to say an untruth,

than

admit to wrong doing,

but in the end,

a lie

is still a lie.

how could we go on?

we hear the dogs barking

late at night.

we're not asleep yet,

we're

somewhere between that

and ending

conversation.

we stay still, not getting

up. we blink

in the darkness

and listen

to them bark

and bark,

and at last stop.

all is well again

we believe, 

otherwise 

how could we go on?

love around the bend

i'm hopeful,

she tells me on the phone.

i'm

on six

dating sites.

from bottom of the barrel,

to seniors

looking

for fun.

i'm hopeful that love is around

the bend.

i've been waiting

my whole life

for the love of my life.

someone who gets me,

who loves me

for who i am.

but i'm at the point, now,

where it doesn't

have to men.

the double feature

was there a better way

to spend

a few hours, than in a movie

theater,

back when you were

young.

inside the enormous

cool room,

out of the summer

sun.

a double feature,

a cowboy flick,

an Elvis picture,

it didn't matter.

all you needed was

candy

and a soda with a straw.

some licorice

and the girl

next door, her elbow

touching 

your arm.

our troubles left behind

we can go back.

return.

make a u-turn up ahead.

we can

see if the iron was left

on.

the door unlocked.

the alarm not

set.

did you water the plants.

leave

a note

for the postman,

the paper boy,

the dog walker?

we can go back, if we

wanted to,

but we're almost there.

almost there.

our troubles

left behind.

i choose flight

it's fight

or flight all day.

an argument ensues.

traffic.

you just want to go home.

go

to your

isle of isolation your

air conditioned

igloo.

friend or foe.

lover

or acquaintance

life

is increasingly shorter

day

into day.

into night.

stay and swing,

if you want to, but

i choose flight.

a store selling wishes

in spite

it rains. goes dark.

the weather

having a mind of its own.

it spits

and swirls.

the wind

does something with your

hair

that i've never seen

before.

we find cover

in a store

selling

wishes.

we buy two.

one for me, one for you.

unclogging the disposal

we hope the celebrities

land on their

feet.

that they'll get 

their lives back together

after so much

public humiliation.

let's pray for them,

those poor souls,

but only after i

cut the grass,

unclog the disposal,

and make

a peanut butter

sandwich

to eat.

out of time

it's the culture.

it's video games.

cell phones.

technology.

no religion.

no parenting.

isolation.

insanity.

it's the end of times.

it's a lack of

education,

of caring.

of empathy.

it's guns and

politicians.

it's the in the food

we eat,

the water we drink.

it's capitalism.

communism.

it's all of the above

and more.

we're out of time.

two on the end

i feel empathy for fish.

lying

there in the shards of ice

behind

the glass

at the butcher shop.

their flat black eyes

staring out.

at nothing.

their hearts no longer 

beating.

the air has filled their

lungs with death.

i feel a cold sadness

for them.

taken from the waters

where they

swam about so easily.

two on the end i tell

the fish man.

and some tartar sauce,

my friend.

the magician next door

a magician

moves in next door.

i see him

with his

hats and canes,

his black cape,

the box he uses to saw

people in half.

i see his smoke

and mirrors.

his 

rabbits and doves.

an elephant trots in

too.

how is there room?

i see his assistant walk

up the sidewalk.

a buxom beauty with

fish nets on.

she winks

at me

and when i look down

my pants are gone.

the verdict

it's a victory for anyone

abused,

verbally

or physically.

emotionally. anyone lied

to and betrayed.

anyone

gaslighted,

triangulated.

love bombed and devalued.

it's a victory

over evil

over the dark side

that

steals our peace.

the exposure

of these lost souls

and justice

is sweet.

the long drive home

we didn't talk

on the drive home.

she drove.

i looked out the window.

the radio played low.

it started to rain,

but we said nothing about it.

she put the wipers on,

the headlights.

it was a long drive.

it got dark.

the roads were empty.

little traffic

to stop us from rolling

along.

everything at last looked

familiar.

but it felt different

somehow.

we didn't talk.

what was there to talk about.

tomorrow?

hose water

lids are a problem

these days.

the butter lid.

the half and half cap.

i need plyers

to twist and turn things

open.

water bottles

nearly break my wrist.

gin bottles.

even the tooth paste tube

has an extra lid

on it.

as a kid i remember

turning on the

faucet and drinking

from the hose,

once the bugs and heat

washed out.

digging in

i've lost count

of the moves.

a dozen, more, maybe

twenty in

all from childhood until

this point

in time.

i think of the boxes.

the trucks,

friends helping.

hiring a company to haul

it all

to the next stop.

so many moves because

of romantic interests,

but i'm done now.

i'm here

at last.

i've dug my feet in.

not even elizabeth hurley

could

make me change my

address.

well, not permanently,

at least.

by the end of the week

they're almost out of the house.

but there are

pictures still on the wall, 

a family

portrait

on the mantle.

a jar of peanut butter

on the counter.

a box of cheerios.

there's food in the fridge.

milk,

butter, eggs.

the shower curtain

still hangs

in the tub.

there are shoes on the steps.

a lawnmower

in the garage.

old clothes in a pile

on the deck.

and a snow shovel

and a bag of salt

on the porch.

we're almost out, she says.

by the end of the week we'll

be in Leesburg.

the ups and downs

the teller at the bank,

Kamil,

is worried

about my money.

he sees

the balance

and shrugs his shoulders,

puts his arms

out

and mouths the words

what

are you doing?

nervously he scratches

beneath his turban, then

he slips a note back with

my deposit slip

that reads

you need to invest this

money.

it's not gaining any interest.

money won't

grow just sitting

in your stagnant account.

it won't go up, he writes

in bold black letters.

i slip him a note back,

that says,

and it won't go down either.

before it changes

you see the kids

out in the court

as the last drop of sunlight

slips away.

they don't want to go in.

it's summer.

the game goes on.

the streetlights

bloom.

they're hanging on to

all

before it changes.

money problems

i don't know what to do with

all my money,

my friend jimmy tells me

over beers.

i don't play golf, i don't sail.

i don't like to travel

too far from home.

i own two houses, three

cars and a swimming pool.

i look back and wonder

why i worked so hard.

i don't have any heirs.

i even made it through

three divorces.

any suggestions?

that's a shame i tell him.

you can leave it to me,

if you want to.

further out

the further

out you go, the further

back in

time you travel too.

the dirt

roads.

the blue highways.

the gas station.

the cows.

the horses.

corner stores.

the fields being plowed.

people that haven't

learned yet

that being friendly

is out of style.

prayer and duct tape

bones break.

pencils

break.

hearts

and windows

break.

dropped vases

and glasses.

the sun

breaks.

our shoes

fall apart,

pipes leak.

the clouds break.

even we

at some point

break and crumble

like a cookie

in milk.

thank God for prayer

and

duct tape.

white out

i like the white out

liquid

in its little

half ounce

container,

not just the smell,

and how

you suddenly feel happy,

but

the corrective

nature

of it.

how i can simply brush

some on

to a written word

and away it goes.

it changes

everything.

mistakes

are made and then 

they're gone.

dogs on the grill

we throw

a couple of hot dogs onto

the grill.

she's wearing

her american flag

bikini.

i'm in my red white

and blue

boxers

with a camouflage shirt

after finding

the mustard,

i get out the sparklers,

the roman

candle.

the burn kit.

she looks at me

as she turns a dog

over on the grill

and says.

wrong holiday.

that's the next one.

breaking even

you want the last check

you write

to bounce.

the one you write 

to the funeral

director on your death bed.

after you've made

all your plans.

you've signed onto

the presidential

style burial.

the caisson,

the gold casket,

the marching band,

and majorettes.

not to mention the 

the eternal flame.

but hopefully you're

in the ground

before,

it's discovered that you've

tapped out

of all your funds.

the small print

read the small

print first.

the big print giveth

and the small

print takest away.

be careful what you get

into.

feel

the small print,

smell

the small print.

put your hands on the ink

and read it

closely

with a magnifying glass.

it's the only truth you'll

need.

the silent treatment

the cat,

aloof as ever, except

when hungry,

gives me

a look.

i shake my head.

what?

i ask.

she turns her head.

nonresponsive.

i sigh.

i'll never

understand her,

nor she me

but we have no choice

but to go on.

a tree fell in the woods

my father tells me,

that

a tree fell

in the woods, but

no one

heard it, because

somebody's wife

kept talking.

he laughs.

i laugh.

we move on from there.

being human

i can be

mean

and vindictive.

jealous.

i can curse with the best

of them.

i can slam

a door,

kick a can.

i can scream and yell,

read the riot act

when lied to

or betrayed.

i hate this side

that you see,

but you,

my dear,

have brought out the worst

of me.

with smoke in our eyes

as i roll the corn

over on the grill,

rubbing smoke

from my eyes,

the fresh

cob

without its jacket

of husk being charred,

i reminisce

about other times

like this.

decades ago.

the charcoal going

white

with heat.

the blue sky above.

someone

in the other room,

seasoning

what

we're about to eat.

God's slight of hand

there are no accidents.

it's all

planned.

no luck,

good or bad.

things just go the way

they're supposed to.

for better or worse.

free will yes,

but for the most part,

if not all,

it's the result of

God's slight

of hand.

scrambled eggs

it's easy to scramble

eggs.

crack a few into

a bowl,

add milk,

take a fork.

mix and blend 

then

into the pan 

of melted butter

they go.

throw in some onions,

some peppers,

cheese,

of course.

lower the heat. 

salt and pepper.

to taste.

love

and life don't have to

be complicated.

be thankful,

say grace.

bon Appetit.

the rooftop bar

from the rooftop

bar

the sun

stretches out its setting along

the ridge

of the city.

a creamy

layered cake

of pinks and yellow.

what you can't see from

the ground

you can see here.

it's a hipster place

of short

skirts

and heels.

of men in suits,

in the elderly sipping

martinis

and beer.

the world is no longer

a topic

of discussion.

it's too far from here.

it's new.

the smell the shine

of iron,

of wood and glass.

the bartenders are young.

the food

is rich

and expensive.

you can see how people

jump from the ledge

after observing

the fabulous view.

the balance

beware of fame.

of money.

of too much love and adoration

from friends

or strangers.

beware

of sunny days

and good luck,

of winning tickets,

of hitting all the green lights

as you drive.

it's temporary.

there will be another

side yet

to come.

karma will arrive.

before they're gone

the man on the phone,

the unhappy

woman.

the newlyweds in their

first apartment.

the old couple

in their last home.

they want colors on

their walls.

wallpaper.

they want a splash

of paint.

new life,

an accent wall.

something that reflects

who they are

before they're gone.

unstill life

i go back

to look at her paintings.

still life.

pears

and oranges,

apples.

arranged 

in bowls, or sitting

separately

on tables.

some portraits too,

the old

the young, lovers

and friends,

odd strangers

she never knew.

she never painted me

though.

i moved around

too much

for her taste.

it's all skin deep

it's all skin deep.

a guise.

the furniture, the car,

the clothes,

the girl,

the guy.

don't be fooled

by the shine.

look deeper into their

eyes.

try the shirt on,

the shoes.

take it for a test drive.

don't sign

quite yet on the dotted

line.

it's all skin deep.

be wise.

the cat nap

you can't underestimate

the afternoon

nap.

the two of you lying together

beneath the fan.

the world

outside closed

off by shades and curtains.

the cool hand

of sheets on your bare skin.

side by side.

you'll fall sleep soon

and awaken again.

what's on the list

things i've never bought

or rented

comes to mind.

for no reason.

celery is on the list.

apple butter.

a fur coat.

crocs.

green colored pants.

a wok.

a mesh t-shirt.

a Mercedes benz.

a bird.

a street walker in fishnets.

a gold watch.

a trampoline.

cigarettes.

a Winnebago

or a boat.

a b b gun or hunting knife,

or bear trap.

a dozen donuts,

but there's still time.

it's like it never happened

it's like it never happened.

all a bad dream.

a story I once

read in a book,

or magazine.

maybe it was a movie,

or show on tv.

it just doesn't seem real

now.

it's a wonderful thing 

how the mind and heart heals 

and we move on,

the past becoming

a pale memory.

a seven or a nine

i can't read

my own writing.

the lines are smudged from

wet ink.

is that a nine or a seven?

Joey or Julie.

it could be work,

or the next love of my life.

the lines are blurred

these days

the room is short of light.

hearsay

most of what we hear

is hearsay,

but we don't object,

or complain,

we move

on, with the question 

or comment

sustained.

life is too short for

courtroom

drama.

everyone is guilty

of something

with only yourself

to blame.

what have we learned so far

so what have we learned so far?

so much.

so little.

it's more

about life experience

and less about

education

and books.

you don't know fire is hot

until

you put your hand

into it.

the ten commandments

are a pretty good

set of rules to go by.

trust your gut.

don't worry so much.

enjoy your life.

stay away from bad people.

have dessert once

in a while.

a glass of wine.

sleep in when you feel like it.

the folded sheet

is still impossible

to fold,

but accept that.

closing arguments

the trial, the celebrity trial.

their lives

bared

to the world.

how it triggers one's soul,

one's heart.

remembering

your own life.

it's painful to watch.

the lies

and deceit.

the gaslighting. the abuse.

on both sides.

you want it to end,

but you can't turn away.

it's a fabulous trainwreck

where

everyone loses

and no one wins.

the ripple

as the water ripples

in concentric

circles

after

the stone is thrown

to the middle

of the pond,

you realize how

all things

matter,

not just words,

but thoughts too.

each

with its power

to decide.

what could go wrong

it's easy to say,

things were better back then.

people were more

polite,

more kind.

television 

helped.

father knows best.

who wouldn't want

donna reed as a wife?

commercials

with smiling kids.

whiter whites.

the black and white of

the 1950s.

a cold war.

the korean war,

civil rights, but for

the most

part

things were alright.

we had bomb shelters too,

just in case.

we seemed to be headed

in the right

direction

once the red scare

ended.

the moon was suddenly

in reach.

buddy holly.

chubby checker.

music became a soundtrack

to our life.

what could go wrong?

everything seemed so right.

i must be dreaming

sometimes you wake

up and you're

glad it was just a dream.

glad the night is over

and reality

sets in.

and then there are other

times

you wish it was a dream,

that none of this was true.

that the nightmare

you're stuck in

would go away, 

get lost in the clouds

of your sleep,

and not to return again.

click bait

the world

is drenched now with offering advice.

it's in your

phone, on your

little screen, how

to cook,

what to wear, where to live,

or go.

what not to eat.

how to stay slim, how

to improve

your image,

how to not be a loser,

how to win.

there's a new

and improved norman vincent

peale

with every click bait

you consume.

she excused herself

she excused herself

from

the use

of minerals.

salt and pepper,

sugar.

seasoning of any kind.

no butter.

her life and cooking

were the same.

without spice,

without

taste, 

bland as a 40 degree

day.

even tea was without

tea,

just water and lemon.

a tepid brew.

her love

was like that too.

with so little given

there are needs, implied

or otherwise,

necessities

of life

strived for 

in order to

survive.

few

have the golden spoon

put to our

tender mouths

as children.

never lacking,  but

most start from scratch

and scratch hard

at what is

eventually had, or not

had, with

so little given.

it's in the bones

there's no changing us.

or them,

him or her.

you can't make a cat into a dog.

a bird

into a fish.

we are born this way.

from

birth until death.

we are who we are.

small adjustments

can made along the way,

but if you're full of

joy and curious,

or mean

and sour, game over,

you'll pretty much remain

that way.

Halifax

my father tells

me the story of the one room

schoolhouse

in Halifax.

the winters there.

the ocean.

his wet socks

on the stove.

his boots

and mittens.

the farm where he plowed

the fields

at 13.

pulled

lobsters from

their cages.

his eyes once

as blue

as the sea,

are weakened to a softer

hue, now.

a fair green,

still full of memory

but washed

and fading with what

his life had been.

they're not so different

celebrities are our clowns.

prancing in

the spotlight.

that make

us laugh,

or cry

with their endeavors.

their movies

and headlines.

the drama

they bring.

how shocked we are to find

that they

need to eat and sleep.

to find love.

we want them to be different,

somehow

not like us,

but above.

from the world briefly

the light, how it lies

down,

how the shadows rise with

thickness,

we lie down

to sleep.

our troubles not far

from

mind, or heart.

but we need the rest.

we need

to be

in another place

for a night.

free

and not free from the world,

so much can wait,

but not grief.

as we grew older

i can still remember

the first

love letter i wrote.

it was to the girl next door.

written

at my desk

with ink and paper.

generous with praise.,

undying affection.

were we

in love?

perhaps. but let's call it love

for now.

i can see her

still

sitting on the stoop.

her scratched knees.

i can

smell her washed hair

falling to her shoulders.

i can feel

the first time she held

my hand.

at the movies.

hoping for more as

we grew

older.

at thirteen

there was always

a bag

of marbles, a pen knife,

a few keys.

a few folded dollars

and spare

change

filling a pocket of old

dungarees.

a rabbit's foot for luck.

rubbed three times

then into the world,

with friends.

to go see what we were

yet to see.

repetition

there is repetition.

how can there not be.

again it's five o'clock.

again it's breakfast,

it's dinner.

again it's sleep.

again it's morning.

another season.

again it's birth,

again it's death.

there is no way around it.

the world

needs repetition,

as we do,

to live in it

our small sample

our view

is that of a puddle

catching

rain,

mirroring the sky.

a small sample of the world.

so much

like

the view within

our

mind.

full of Ireland

she reminds me

of

strawberries.

the color of her hair.

the paleness

of skin,

freckled

cheeks and chin.

her liquid eyes,

full

of Ireland,

bottled green.

she's long and wired,

but svelte 

and funny.

she matches my

gait,

my laugh, my grin.

down on the farm

i visit 

my friend's farm out in the country.

he has

sheep and cattle,

chickens.

a cow that he squeezes

for milk.

there's a goat

up on the hill making

goat noises.

a few fat pink

pigs are

rolling around

in the mud

in the pig pen.

they look very happy.

his wife is on the porch

ringing

the dinner bell.

he hands me

a pair of dungaree overalls,

and says

put these on.

it's what we wear out here.

we're having

apple pie

for dessert.

cake rehab

i try so hard

to get the cake monkey off my back.

spice

cake, chocolate cake.

two layer cake,

pan

and sheet cake.

Bundt cake.

smith island cake.

god forbid

another wedding cake.

i try to shake off the addiction

to vanilla cake,

and cheesecake,

lemon and carrot,

german chocolate cake,

pineapple upside down

cake.

a tray of little cupcakes

with icing and sprinkles.

i'm on the wagon.

i'm shaking, but

i'm trying.

trying so hard to get

off the cake.

i love your shoes

i tell her she has great legs,

beautiful

green eyes.

her physique is sublime.

her hair is silken

twine.

i tell her that

her heart

is made of gold,

her mind wise.

she smiles at me

and stares, then offers,

i love your shoes.

finding reasons

there are reasons.

some good

some bad,

rational and irrational.

but we find

them.

we cradle them in our arms.

we defend ourselves,

our behavior with them.

unhugged

in childhood,

no lucky breaks, poverty

and shortness

in stature.

the color our eyes,

the shades

of our skin.

the religion one is born

with.

we sing the songs of what ifs,

finding reasons,

some good,

some bad.

when the power dies

it's not water or air,

or food,

or shelter.

it's not even love

and affection,

no.

it's none of that.

it's the cable

box

that frightens me,

and makes

run

to the priest,

to the books,

to my knees in

deep prayer and thought

when the line

is cut

and you're dead

in the water.

another monday

it's too early for thought,

for clear

thinking.

i don't need the news today.

even the birds

seem tired, with

their weak chirping.

i'm groggy

from sleep.

half awake.

i stumble out into the rain.

it's tuesday, but

it feels like monday

again.

late to bloom

some are crowned early,

in school.

or childhood.

the sword

tapping their shoulders.

knighting them,

the golden ones.

but it doesn't last long.

they've peaked

too soon.

the rest of life is harder,

whereas for the rest of us,

going unnoticed,

beneath the wire,

we are late to bloom.

strip poker

we make plans.

a picnic maybe,

the deviled eggs are

waiting

in the fridge.

she's cut the crust off

the little

cucumber sandwiches.

perhaps we'll take a hike

through the woods,

row across the lake.

then 

we change

plans.

we check the weather.

the emotional

forecast

of each other.

we ponder, we worry.

we fret.

it's Saturday

and we should be doing

something fun.

what will we tell everyone?

we both

look out the door as

it begins to rain.

she pulls

out a deck of cards

from her enormous purse

bag thing,

and deals the first hand.

i open the wine.

before

long

we have no clothes on,

and our

plan has been decided

for us.

the perfect yard next door

my young neighbor

to the right, facing my house.

tells

me that i have an interesting yard.

i laugh.

she laughs

and shakes her head.

her yard,

with her young boyfriend

and young dog

is perfect.

a square of green grass,

a path of red bricks.

new chairs,

a fire pit,

strings of edison

lights for when they have

a party.

off which i'm yet to get an invite.

i tell her that God is my gardener,

and i'm

curious as to what

he grows next.

history deleted

i take the box

down

from the closet shelf,

and spill

it onto the floor.

the pictures

fall out.

some black and white.

some

from childhood,

not all happier times,

friends and lovers,

family,

but none from the last ten

years.

those are in my phone,

in limbo, waiting

to disappear

when i die.

dating younger women

she's so much younger.

fresh

and alive.

rosy cheeks, and bright.

she wears

me out both

morning, noon

and night.

my doctor writes me

a prescription

to keep in the game.

it's not quite

a May and December situation,

but close enough.

she laughs

at my music choices.

the Beatles and Dylan,

Sinatra

and such.

let's go dancing she says.

let's go

on a hike,

go sky diving, go deep

sea

fishing.

let's arm wrestle.

tomorrow, i tell her.

but today

i need to go shopping,

i need a new bell

and basket for my

bike.

but it happens

my mother

would often say, don't put

me in a home,

when the time

comes.

let me stay here.

stay with my parakeet,

my sewing

machine,

my plants in the window.

the puzzle unfinished

on the table.

don't put

me with a bunch of strangers.

alone

in a room.

promise me,

she'd say, looking

into our eyes.

promise me.

but it happens.

have you met my friend, abe lincoln

it's a room full of

empty

tables.

a scant few patrons having

drinks at the bar.

but 

nothing's available

until 930

the maître d says.

but

who wants to eat that late.

no

reservations weren't

made,

and they don't respond

to the abe lincoln

i ask them

to meet.

it's good for me

as a child i'd faint

at the sight

of a gleaming doctor's

spike,

the needle approaching

an arm,

or leg,

or bottom.

full of good stuff,

something

to keep me alive a little

while longer.

but i've grown used

to the puncture,

the slight

bite of pain. it's for

my own good, i tell myself,

with each

new wound that follows.

her yellow dress

she's different

somehow

in a yellow

dress

than she is in blue.

happier,

perhaps.

it's apparent her

moods

are more about fashion,

and less and less

about you.

adjusting

curtained

windows keeping out the light.

the dim

morning

wanting in,

but you're not in the mood.

not for

another day.

but rise you do.

what

are the options,

the choices,

your eyes will adjust,

so will

the mood.

there will be storms

it's upon us,

before we know it.

faced with wind,

the beauty of the storm,

the black

lacquer

of clouds,

the dispersing of silvered

bullets,

a violent shrug

of thunder,

there is nowhere to

run.

let's embrace it,

and each other,

let it test our love again.

is there someone else?

she has tears in

her eyes.

what? i ask. what is it?

i take her hand.

tell me, what's wrong.

she blows her nose.

wipes her eyes.

you haven't made love to

me

since last night, she says.

nearly ten hours ago.

don't you love me

anymore?

this morning you got up

without so much

as a kiss

and hopped in the shower.

aren't i attractive enough

for you?

is there someone else?

he trained me

i never trained

my dog.

he more or less trained me.

he knew

my weaknesses.

how easily

i felt guilt in leaving.

taking him

on longer walks.

letting him

bark.

pushing the chair

to window

so that he could look out.

letting him watch tv,

sleeping in bed beside me.

growling

if i took up too much room.

contentment in reach

there will be more

days

like this, won't there?

we ask

ourselves,

lounging in the warm

falling

sun

along the beach.

of course there will.

we'll see to it.

our new plan.

contentment is always

in reach.

she likes it rough

she rubs her

hand against my cheek

and chin,

feeling

the rough

bristle of me unshaved.

i like

it rough,

she tells me, it feels manly,

lumberjack

like, come closer,

let's misbehave.

the candy store

the first look

upon

the rows, the glass enclosed

cases

of candy

is

astounding to a set

of child's eyes.

who made

this land, this place

of every kind

of sweet.

from chocolate bars,

to twists

of licorice,

to gum

and lollipops.

is the world really like

this?

that answer comes

soon enough,

but for now,

dip your hand into

the barrel

and live.

the uprooted

undug,

gouged out, the weeds,

that live

with struggle,

are pulled.

not pretty like the flower,

or vine

even,

the birch tree.

unsightly and unwanted

are the weeds.

so much

in life, like them,

those

with needs, of varied

faiths,

or colors,

unmet.

best to uproot them

and put

them where they

can't be seen.

flush, then get another

i could do a cat maybe.

maybe,

though, i'd prefer

a dog.

but a cat wouldn't need much.

water,

some food set out.

i could leave

for a month

with no problem.

no issues, no argument.

but still.

the flea collar,

the purring, the sandbox.

shots,

and then the getting

old part.

attachment and

the sorrow which follows.

maybe a fish.

a gold fish.

a bright orange thing

swimming

in circles all day,

reminding me

of my own life, perhaps.

but

replaceable like so much

of the world now.

when it's done,

you flush

and move on. get another.

body language

we give ourselves

away.

the blink,

the nod, the twitch,

the glance

in another direction.

we sway

where we stand.

scratch

an itch.

we tap our foot,

we stare

at the clock.

it's a performance

of a conversation,

unrelated to what

is thought.

sweet childhood wine

was there anything more

heavenly

than the church bells

ringing

from the rusted

white truck

selling

sno-cones on a hot summer day.

the old man

smiling 

as he scooped shaved ice into

the white

coned cups,

pouring

the blood of cherries,

the greens

of limes,

the cut drizzles of

blueberries.

all of it staining our

t-shirts

our shorts,

our lips with the elixir

of sweet

childhood wines.

the cherry blossoms

i stumble

into the protest on the mall

while taking

pictures

of the cherry blossoms

when a 

a woman, with a crew cut,

and muscles, well, a few women

attack

me.

hitting me on the head

with their

hashtag me too

movement placards

and oversized handbags.

i go to the ground, they start

kicking me.

punching

and yelling at me.

hey, hey

what have i done?

please stop.

you're a man, they say.

we know

what you've been doing

and thinking.

how dare you come

down here

while we're marching for

equal rights

and reparations,

i point to the cherry blossom

trees.

i'm taking pictures.

they're beautiful,

pretty, like all of

you gals.

i cringe as i absorb a kick

from a doc martin

boot.

no, no,

you have me all wrong.

i like all you chicks, really.

then the lights go out.

the vultures gather

the real estate

agents keep

calling.

they leave messages

on my phone,

notes taped

to the door.

texts.

voice mails,

they put brochures through

the slot

onto the hall

floor.

we want to buy your house,

cash.

no questions asked.

as is.

call us.

meet with us.

we'll give you an offer

that you can't refuse.

sell now

while the irons hot.

don't miss out,

don't be a fool.

you're old now,

go south,

get out, it's time to move.

the park bench

it's a hot day.

i see a squirrel on the bench,

wiping his

brow

with a tiny handkerchief,

sipping

on an RC cola,

staying hydrated.

move over,

i tell him.

brutal, he says.

sure.

sip? he offers.

fanning himself with his

bushy tail.

no thanks, i tell him.

i'm off the sugar.

testing the water

the water is murky.

green,

a brownish slug of stream,

hardly moving,

not a bird

or fish seen.

i dip my

toe in fear

into the muck,

and you want me to dive

in?

to swan dive 

myself into

the dark depth

of whatever it is you

call love?

please, i've had enough

of such

bad dreams.

heroic

what is heroic?

does there have to be life and death

involved.

soldiers

in war,

or can it be

the mother or wife

alone,

raising children,

the father

daily in the mine,

digging coal,

the parents growing

gracefully

old?

the ebb and flow

slowly i slip

away from social media.

back pedaling,

deleting,

erasing, unfriending

those

who were never friends

at all.

into the shadows i go.

like the olden

days.

happy to not have others

know,

my personal ebb

and flow.

when it comes to love

we learn early

not to

touch the hot stove,

the match,

the sharp knife,

to watch out for

the broken glass

underfoot,

the hole in the road,

be careful

we're told.

but when it comes

to love and things

of the heart,

we're on our own.

on hands and knees

time

to clean out the fridge.

good lord.

what

is that.

what's this. no date,

no label.

just a jar with something

green and alive

in it.

maybe evolution is true

after all.

two heads of lettuce

gone soft

and brown.

six bottles of thousand

island

dressing, not mine.

eggs, cracked

and spilled inside their

little cups.

pickles from another era,

another time.

whose wheat germ is this?

whose

half of a sandwich

of ham

on rye?

an orange from last summer

hiding between

a lemon and a lime.

i take out the mysteries

of the Siberian

top door shelf,

meats and fish,

an eggplant dish,

banished to the cold never

to be seen

or opened.

never to be eaten,

or grow old.

can i come up and see your etchings

you can't whistle at an

attractive woman

anymore.

tell them they look beautiful

and sexy today.

you can't wink,

or check someone out.

ogling they used to call it.

you can't say anything clever,

like who's your daddy,

or can i come up and see

your etchings tonight.

you can't be a man anymore.

full of desire and attraction

for the opposite sex.

you have to stay glum and numb.

perfectly still with your eyes

forward, or closed,

pretending not see

the glorious shapes of women

that God made

wearing yoga pants,

or a dress revealing knees.

their next movie

they lack nothing,

nothing

of this world.

the accumulation of wealth

is astounding.

they lack

nothing but self-awareness

and wisdom

it seems.

baring their already worn

souls

out for all to see.

the chaos,

the lies.

the insanity.

there's not enough

pills and booze

to ease their pain,

to fix them.

mental illness does

not discriminate,

and yet the crowds adore

and worship

them,

another movie in the making,

yet to be.

saving the fish

as kids in the 60's we'd

fish not far from the blue plains sewage

treatment plant

along the river.

close to the Wilson Bridge.

the fish were either extremely

large,

or dead.

almost all of them had open

wounds,

or scars.

we felt like we were saving them

from their slow

polluted death.

they had that get me out of

here look in their

eyes,

but how nice the river looked

from a far,

beatifically blue,

as we walked down the trail

to cast out

our hopeful lines

and nets.

finding the alley

it's all about the alleys

in the city.

unnamed. 

how to get in, get out.

deliveries,

furniture,

work men.

nothing goes through

the front door.

make a left then right,

then squeeze

down the dark

alley where you'd never

go at night.

ring the bell at the loading

dock.

someone will come

at some point, once they

see you on the camera

with your ID 

held up to the dim red

light.

ignorance is bliss

i forget to watch the news

for a few

days,

taking a break

from the death count,

the wars,

the disease,

the shootings and hijackings.

i turn off

the phone, the internet

and put some

music on.

i bake a cake

or two

and put them on the window

sill to cool.

ignorance is bliss. you

should try it

too.

vanity

at every age,

every stage of life,

we stay vain.

as a child we lick

the cow

lick down.

staring into the mirror

at what other's

might see

and judge.

through middle age

and beyond.

we find

the mirror to gauge

our look,

our years, 

stepping on then off

the scale,

before we move on.

finding the cheese

is it the game,

the maze,

finding one's way out,

or is it

the cheese, the prize

at the end

of the day,

for the 

harried mouse?

venting

the vent

is venting hot air,

bad air,

toxic

air.

you hear the rattle of

the metal

door flapping

as the words

flow out,

unabated,

unrestrained.

the truth of how you

really feel

at last leaves

your mouth.

we all need to vent

sometimes,

or go insane.

fat and happy

i see the rabbits

in the yard

helping themselves to carrots

and lettuce.

they've figured

out a way

to get under

the fence, then around it.

they've unlocked

the gate

and let others in.

they will be fat

and happy

this season,

before another winter

begins.

slip and get up

slip and get up.

go down,

rise again.

lift yourself upright.

start over.

hang on.

it's what we do.

how we live.

if not.

we have no words,

no advice

to give.

a little self help reading material

feeling a little blue,

under the weather, i go to my

self help

bookcase

and peruse what book might

give me a jump start,

wake me up,

and see the brighter side

of the road.

the four agreements, nah.

too wu wu.

the power of

positive thinking?

pfffft.

how about psychopath free.

nah.

been there, done that.

the power of now. nope,

gives me a headache, 

the body keeps score, too

depressing

breaking toxic soul ties?

nope again.

hmmm.

how about this one.

the complete illustrated

hard bound,

latest edition,

Kama Sutra.

here we go.

bird hunting

i see my friend

Jimmy on the street.

he's dressed in camouflage.

what's up,

i ask him.

i almost didn't see you

coming out of

the donut shoppe?

going hunting he says,

while nibbling

on a bear claw.

oh really. what are you

hunting for?

moose, elephants?

he laughs and chokes on

his pastry a little.

ya know,

Safeway has meat and fish

now, i tell him.

no, he says. we're hunting birds.

sounds very dangerous.

no, not at all, not for us.

it's all about the thrill.

the strategy.

i have a new bird whistle

i want to try out.

we hide in the brush,

then blow the whistle.

the doves come flying out

and we shoot them

down.

you can't miss with a shotgun.

the pellets spray everywhere.

then we send the dogs out

to bring them back.

do you want some?

nah.

having chicken tonight.

but thanks.

gummy bear shortage

i'm worried

about the shortage of gummy

bears

since the plant

shut down.

the machinery gummed

up,

so to speak.

what will

fill my candy bowl now?

i google

them.

maybe i can make my

own.

what did they do

in the previous years,

the civil war

years,

in medieval times?

how did they

survive before the invention

of those soft

chewy,

sugary

mult-flavored

gummy bears?

starts there

can you save

the world from itself.

no.

but you

can make

a difference in your own

life.

one day

at a time.

more kindness,

less

anger,

less fear,

more love.

starts there.

grape jelly

excitedly

as we sit for lunch,

she tells me that she met

someone 

famous

once.

a movie

star from the silver screen.

she shows me her hand.

this hand

touched him,

she says.

holding it up for me

to see.

can you believe it,

she says.

meeting him?

me?

i point to a spot of

grape jelly

on her chin,

and reach over to wipe

it.

there has to be more

sure it's good

to have money. a place

to live.

an automobile,

things.

things that make life

easy.

it's what you've wanted,

isn't it?

who hasn't?

and those pictures

on the mantle,

on the dresser, don't

they prove

the life you've lived?

loved ones?

and yet strangely there

has to be more.

i still have time,

to find out what it is.

unplugged

i pull the plug on nearly

everyone.

cut the cord

and switch off.

it's just me and the yard,

the lingering

blue of sky

between the trees.

it's just me.

this chair, a book

i'm trying to finish,

and

my feet

resting on a table,

bare as they can be.

read between the lines

our secrets will

die

with us.

perhaps, unless someone

comes

along

to read between the lines,

look

under

the bed,

or deep into the closet.

if they can

figure out the code

to the safe,

the soul now

gone, maybe then they'll

get the picture

of who came and went,

but never

all of it.

just is

the ravines,

the lines, and crevices.

the story.

is there.

on her tongue,

in her eyes.

the web of smiles.

the crease

of sorrow upon her

brow.

all of it

neither kind or unkind,

just is.

silvered

and slender in her

setting

sun.

room of a younger year

far from the room of

a younger year,

the smell

of old

rises.

dust,

dirt.

the dinge of time

layering

almost smug in its

relentless way

of covering

all once new.

i'll swipe it away

though

with broom, and cloth.

my hand too,

a tool

to write with and

move on.

there's always tomorrow

some things can wait until

tomorrow.

the yard,

the kitchen sink.

the bills on the desk.

the conversation we

keep avoiding.

there's time

for all of it.

not now, not right this

second,

but tomorrow.

how can you not love

a tomorrow?

watching the trial

i shudder

at the broadcast of the trial.

two

rich

lost souls

who have everything and nothing

at the same time.

crazy

as loons, both of them.

unable

to see or touch

the real

world.

actors

who can't stop acting.

self made fools.

the summer people

the summer people

have gone

south

with their tans

and white clothes.

birds on wings

to sunny

states

along the lower

coasts.

their homes are bundled

up

for the storms

at sea.

the chilled

winds

of winter

that will arrive soon.

locked

tight with shutters pulled,

their homes are

left empty and waiting

for spring

and bare feet.

what to wear

it's a clothing dilemma

in the morning.

what to wear.

what t-shirt to put on

blue or white?

should i go with the old

worn

but comfortable

jeans, or

maybe the khaki shorts?

tennis shoes

sketchers, or

the lace up nikes?

flip flops?

i lay everything out on 

the bed

and ponder this tough

decision.

the wine spill

no worries,

it's just wine spilled

onto

the floor.

the white rug,

the table,

my shirt, my pants, my

shoes

red wine.

i don't drink wine

but i see

when you can get

the glass

near your mouth

and swallow,

that you do.

it's his turn

as i walk

by the old church.

the statue of Mary

looking down,

there are candles lit.

there's a man on his knees

praying.

i say nothing

as i listen to him cry

out in grief,

bent in sorrow.

quickly, i leave.

it's his turn.

the favored cup

the favored cup

is chipped,

but i use it still.

the slight crack along

its flowered

side

is thin, but there are no

leaks.

it holds

the tea warm

when i pour it

full,

careful to turn

it to the smooth edge,

i'm reluctant to buy

new

and start all over again.

the other side of the moon

his world

tightens, grows smaller by

the day.

the squeeze

is on.

no longer at the wheel,

no longer

taking a stroll

around the park.

travel is over, gone.

it's from

the bed

to bath,

to the kitchen, to the

chair

in the living room.

the bench outside

is now a voyage

to the other side

of the moon.

truly green

i see her out the window.

in the yard.

knees in the dirt.

her hat on,

her summer dress,

planting

flowers.

seeds.

i wave down,

she smiles

and waves up to me.

her thumb is truly green.

an overnight trip

i travel light.

a toothbrush in hand.

the clothes on

my back.

a phone,

a car.

shoes.

whatever it is i need,

it there is anything,

i'll buy

on the road.

but let me help you with

your bags.

we can put

some on the roof

and rent

a u-haul

for the rest.

it's theater

it's theater.

it all is. the days that

fold

into nights.

it's all a dream, a flick,

a play.

on a large scale,

a small stage,

roll the cameras,

action.

it's life.

spam days

we ate a lot of

spam

when we were kids.

the neat

squared can

of ham

and pork pressed

into a fist

of meat. 

gooey and hard,

but

a little mustard

and a fat slice

laid

on a bed of wonder

bread,

was heaven.

it hit the spot.

night tremors

it's 3 in the morning.

a bad

dream.

i shiver and shake it off.

the red

lights

from clock

are all i see.

but i need to see your

eyes to know

it's not real.

feel your hand against

my heart

as it pounds

in fear.

tell me no lies

don't tell me your secrets,

your hidden

flaws,

your blemishes,

your lies,

your deeds gone wrong,

all the things you've

done.

don't reveal the past.

let's just go on as if we're

both perfect.

let's make

it last.

are we set in our ways?

are we set in our ways?

settled

on food and drink,

the color

and type of clothes we wear?

are we stuck

in our choice of style?

unable to change?

not wanting to try

the strange food,

or go a different way.

have we at last found

out who we are,

and what we want

or don't want?

who we choose to be with,

and who we send

away.

i think so.

i'm hot, she's cold

i open

the window, she closes it.

i turn

off the heat,

she raises it a few

degrees warmer.

i pull the chain to spin

the fan,

she pulls it

twice more

to end it.

i pull off the blanket

and rely on the sheet,

she doubles

up

with more from the closet.

more pillows,

pajamas,

mittens

and earmuffs,

and anything she brings.

we get along so well, but

when it comes

to temperatures

we tend to disagree.

as the stamp awaits

my circular file is filled

with

half written notes.

torn cards.

i just don't have the words

to say what

i want to say.

too shallow, too vapid,

too bland

or lame.

i crumble each sheet

into a ball

and toss them towards

the corner,

the overflowing

wastebasket.

one more. one more.

as the envelope and stamp

awaits.

no need for words

no need for words.

we

can see in one another's eyes

what's

being said.

no need

to wag the tongue,

to verbally

express ourselves.

the distance between

us is

too far

to overcome.

silence says it all.

all you can eat

i rub the fog out

on the glass,

making a small port hole

to stare out

the motel window along

the back

road

of the beach

at the pancake house,

a sign

in the window.

reading, all you can eat.

all day breakfast.

best on the beach 1973.

the line

is short

before the doors open.

i see a truck

pull up

with cauldrons of

batter, drums

of syrup.

pallets of butter

being wheeled in by

sturdy men

with beards.

slabs of bacon on their backs.

beach town weary.

i lift up my shirt to take

measure of my

stomach.

there's room.

let's go.

sea sick

each

day was a performance.

hers

then mine.

reactive

and full of oceanic

emotion.

low

and then high tides.

rip tides.

waves

that would swallow

your ship

whole.

toss you overboard

to swim,

with fingers crossed,

towards home.

wanting less

wanting less,

or

needing

or desire, is a comfort

when it

subsides.

no

reason

for more,

larger, or better.

bigger.

this is fine, where i'm at.

it's good.

it's where

i can live.

hang my hat.

waiting on milk

i miss the milk man,

with his

cold bottles of milk

and cream.

his dozen eggs,

his meats,

his bread.

all placed into your

metal porch box,

the rattle

of glass,

early in the morning

with his truck

idling,

him in his hat and white

suit.

white as milk itself.

up before

sunrise.

his wife still asleep at

home.

him rushing, anxious

to get back.

stuffed animals on the wall

he had the heads

of 

animals on the wall.

bear and deer,

a moose.

things

he shot and killed.

stuffed

and peering down

each day

with black marble eyes.

no longer

in grief

or pain.

just the head.

the rest eaten? perhaps.

or buried.

below them were 

pictures

of an ex wife,

smiling, a different sort

of long ago

prize.

around him little

seemed

to survive.

i'm here and you're not

i'm sending postcards

again.

it's time.

it's overdue.

hand written notes

to loved ones,

acquaintances

i used to know.

i give them a summary

of where i

am,

what city or beach,

and how much they're

missed or

not missed.

all said between the lines,

with x's and o's.

a parting

kiss

the postcard being such 

an old school treat.

to anyone i used to know

i slip

into the day.

from bed to floor.

looking out at

the grey

warm rain.

i slip coffee into my

mouth.

i slip into the shower,

then clothes.

i slip forward,

quietly,

seamlessly.

without

a word to anyone

i used to know.

almost anyone

he can make it to the bench.

slowly.

a few yards

from his door.

he'll bask in the sun

when there is sun

in the morning.

a cane to help him along,

a cup of coffee.

a smile,

a wave hello

for anyone walking by.

anyone,

except for the neighbor

next door.

mother nature

this weather

tells

you who's in charge.

not you.

this hard

wind,

this steely rain.

this ocean that can sweep

you and

everything

away, if it chose to.

nature

will have its way,

regardless

of who you think you are,

or how hard

you pray.

no regrets

as the market

falls,

the money

less today than yesterday.

you shrug.

it's money

that you'll never spend

anyway.

you'll be dead long before

it gets to that.

why worry.

why fret.

tomorrow you'll go to work.

you'll eat,

you'll sleep

with no

fear, no regrets.

finding happy

it's raining.

the sun hasn't been out

for days.

the sea is gray.

the sand brown.

the boardwalk empty.

the hotel

empty.

the elevator empty.

the restaurant

across the street

closed.

the ice cream shop,

the bar,

the pizza store closed.

but there's a dog

out on the wet

sand running free

with a red ball in his

mouth,

oblivious to it all.

new set of keys

at last

the tight key breaks in the slot.

half

in, half out.

somehow

i get in though.

i get out the tools,

the new

knob,

the new set of keys.

i remove the old lock

and replace it

with the new lock.

tumblers and screws

to the floor.

tightened and secure.

the duplicates go

into the well magnet,

into the shed.

onto the hook in the kitchen

where it won't

get lost.

so many ways to get in.

no entry

we can't know.

there's no true entry 

into anyone's

mind,

or soul.

we can guess

at what they think or feel,

but in the end.

only they know

what's isn't true,

what's real.

the old future

i glance

at the calendar.

still april.

the page

still not turned.

i'm living in the past too much.

the future

seems

so old.

pierce's barbeque

the first time there,

i was 18.

a mere fifty years ago.

but the shack

still stands.

the pit full of fire

and wood.

the yellow aprons of

the servers.

the line at the window.

large men

and women, children

in their shadows.

it's somewhere

between here

and there on the way

to the beach.

barbeque to go.

barbeque to eat

inside or out.

it's on your shirt,

your sleeve.

your cheeks.

it's sugary and spicy at

the same

time.

like you my dear.

like you.

both warm

and sweet.

around again

in his crumbled human

form.

milk soft now

with age,

once made

of stone.

he stumbles, holds

on to the chair,

a table,

to me.

the circle is complete.

from father

to child

and around again.

memories fill

the silence

that hangs in the air.

i can't drive far

i can't drive far.

a few hours, maybe, if

the right

person is along.

the right food, the right drink

in hand.

good weather.

the radio on.

i can't drive far.

i'm bored easily. stiff

from the wheel,

the seat.

my knee hurts

from

the pedal, the gas, the brake.

it's a straight shot

home from the beach.

home before dark,

is the plan.

into the fog

you can't see the ocean.

the sand.

a ship

at sea.

no lights beyond

the light

of your own room

with the curtains

pulled.

the fog is thick.

the fog is out of a horror

show.

a scary movie.

the twilight zone.

you put your hand into it.

your hand

is gone.

you put your heart out there.

that too

disappears.

supply and demand

the car salesman

tells

me that there's a shortage

of cars.

i'm sitting in his windowed

showroom,

surrounded

by cars.

i look out the clear

sheets of plated glass

and that's all i see.

cars.

and black is a tough color

to find

right now, he says.

but it's the only color

i see, 

except for grey and white

and an occasional red, or blue.

today is the last day, he says

for financing

at this rate.

covid and the war.

the price

of gas,

the economy, politics.

the stock market.

he shrugs, it's tough now.

so here, he says, handing

me a pen.

we have a green

used car, a hybrid, sitting

out back.

we're putting a fresh coat

of paint on it,

and tires,

just for you.

if there was a nuclear war

if there was a nuclear war

with a few

dozen

atomic bombs

dropping

nearby

that would

mean no

more indoor plumbing.

no lights.

no internet.

no netflix anymore.

no coffee to make

or pour.

we'd be on our own

with

a headache

and open sores.

it wouldn't be good.

there'd be nothing

on the shelves,

no more farmer's market.

it's best

to run towards the light,

not away.

survival would be

such

an exhausting chore.

fair warning

i tell my father

i'm on my way.

giving him fair warning 

to put

what he doesn't

want me to see

away.

the gin bottle,

the magazine,

the cake,

the lingerie.

i'd expect the same

warning

from my child

if he ever visited.

no one likes a pop in

surprise.

geese welfare

the geese expect bread now.

fat and happy

they paddle

to the edge

of the lake waiting

for the next hand

to feed them.

despite the signs, people

can't help themselves.

tossing out bread

towards the honking beaks.

they're spoiled now.

they have no need to dip

their heads

into water, for worms

and weed

to eat.

they're on easy street.

the opera house

other than Isabel

Leonard

i know nothing about the opera.

i neither

like or dislike it.

but it reminds me of 

childhood,

and a few relationships

i've been through.

the conversations

and arguments being

sung

out in loud dramatic

fashion.

an unequal dose of laughter

and sorrow,

blood and tears.

but now

i like to keep that curtain

closed.

beach excursion

packing

for the beach is easier than it

used to be.

no umbrella

to load,

no buckets

or shovels.

no rafts or floats.

no ball, or toys, no extra

pairs of anything.

just two sets of clothes.

one for the beach

and one

to go out to eat.

gas it up

and go.

i know, beware

i know

before i know. i can sense it.

smell it.

feel it

in the air.

the tingling of spine,

the raised

hair.

i know

what's coming,

where it is,

and who.

be careful around me.

i know.

beware.

her sky cap

my suitcase

is small.

a few necessary items.

sweaters

for the cold.

shorts for the warm

walking shoes.

one dress shirt for dinner.

a toothbrush.

a razor.

some cash and i'm

done.

and then i see the sky

cap

with her luggage,

her skipping

not far behind.

truly larks

as dogs

do,

leaving their mark,

how

many carve or spray

their name

onto walls,

into bark.

we all want to be

remembered

in some way.

but knowing

deep within,

that such thoughts

are truly

larks.

interest wains

the interest

wains,

slips from your fingers,

as fish

do

once

great in the sun, scales

ablaze

with color.

the cold new life

from

the deep pond.

interest wains,

as you let

it go back

to from where 

it comes.