by ice or fire it goes

it will all go,

at some point,

either ice or fire

will

end things as they are.

me and you.

these hands

that do so much for us.

the books we

read,

the ones we don't.

so much

gets used, as more gets

wasted.

there will be no

more history

in the end.

no Aristotle, or Shakespeare,

no Einstein,

or Freud,

no Da Vinci,

no you, holding my hand.

buying stamps

it's obvious to anyone

observing

us

as we stand in line

at the post

office for stamps,

that we made

love last night.

her arm around me,

my knee

pushing against her

thigh.

her head

resting against mine.

we're quiet with our

words,

as we inch forward

in the slow

and wonderous line.

the widower

she tells me about her new

fellow.

he's tall.

he's smart and funny.

he's a widower

with three kids,

some at home, some

on their own.

but i can tell she's

hesitant.

there's something wrong,

some

undefinable thing

she can't put her finger on.

is it too early?

i tell her to

let it go where it's 

supposed to go,

and no further.

and when it ends i'll

be here

with a shoulder to cry on.

again.

they can't all be winners

sometimes

the words come out in torrents.

the ideas

flow.

there's a light and dark

freshness

to it all,

there's a moral

to the story,

it's whole with

a beginning, middle

and end,

while other times

it's a slow

drizzle of

oft repeated thoughts

typed out

without much

effort,

though dry and barren

once again.

who's avocado is this?

i find an old avocado

in the bottom

of my fridge. it's in

the onion and pepper

bin, but

it's not mine.

it was left here

by a previous tenant

who briefly made

my life a living

hell.

it's squishy in my hand.

mushy

and smells rotten.

the crazy big

seed pops out

onto the floor

when i give the fruit

a squeeze.

the nut rolls under 

the stove,

all greasy and green.

i get on my hands and knees

and try to dig

it out,

but i can't reach it.

i try the broom, but it's

too big.

finally i get a clothes

hanger

and try to hook

the ball like seed towards

me.

i shine a flashlight

into the dark

crease of crumbs and 

assorted eggshells

and what not.

it's no use.

it's going further in.

i give up, but first pick

up a few pennies

and dimes that are lying

there.

so it's a win anyways.

we think it's going to be real soon

i ask a salesman,

Biff,

at the dealership when my car

might be

coming in.

i put a thousand dollars

down to get on a list.

the phone goes silent,

but i can hear

him mumbling

to someone.

he says, oh no, what

do we tell him,

it's another one asking questions

about cars.

he clears his throat

and says

with confidence,

soon, very soon.

but we thank you for your

patience.

when? i ask.

when?

oh, by the end of the

month for sure,

or next month,

or next year.

we had that covid thing

you know.

it sort of put

a monkey wrench into

car production.

plus the war,

and oil prices,

monkey pox,

and the avian bird flu.

why are you even open

for business

i ask him if you don't even

have any cars?

it's like asking pizza hut

for a pizza

and they're out of dough.

or

the paint store not having

paint.

or

the donut shop not having

donuts.

isn't there a number you can

call to find out?

nah. 

it's been disconnected.

the early morning meet up group

i join the local

meet up group

trying to make some

new friends.

they take hikes

around the lake,

and play

checkers.

sometimes they

go to the mall

when it's cold out.

i'm learning about

bird watching.

and cross stitching,

how to play a banjo.

at the end of the day

we take a group

nap

in the school gymnasium.

i'm becoming very informed

about end of life

insurance policies.

they depress me

though,

with their canes,

and walkers.

continually talking about

world war two

and Roosevelt, how

the great depression was

a bummer.

i'm always yelling

at them

to hurry up,

come on people,

we ain't getting any

younger,

and wiping oatmeal off

the front of their

clothes.

i may have joined

a decade or two too

early.

the new driver's license

the girl at the DMV

asks me

what my hair color is.

she waits as i think about it.

well,

i start off.

it used to be blondish

brown,

like brush, you know

on a long

field with the sun shining

down on it.

think of autumn.

go on, she says, not writing

any of this down.

how many decades ago

was that sir?

i sense her impatience.

the room is full

of foot tapping people

holding

old license plates.

well, yes, i have aged,

i tell her, and now when

i decide to let it grow

out a little, it's a color

i like to call, platinum.

no, she says.

here's your choices.

black, brown, blonde

and grey.

choose one.

or none.

okay, okay. let's go with

none for now.

she stamps my form

and tells me 

to walk over there for

a photo.

my right side is my best

side, i tell her.

whatever, she says. NEXT!

dinner is served

i catch

a family of squirrels

with tiny forks and knives

eating my

Halloween pumpkin

on the porch.

they hardly move

when i approach

them.

napkins are tied

around their fuzzy

throats,

excuse me, i say,

brushing by

going into the house.

bon appetite.

i'll turn on the light.

don't be the nail

believe nothing.

not written or said.

trust no one.

not the priest

the politician

the person beside

you

lying in bed.

the butcher has his

thumb

on the scale,

the married man

a mistress.

the smiling bride

has a hammer

and you're the nail.

The Dossier

i ask my new friend what

that raised squiggly

scar is on her abdomen.

i haven't seen her in ten

years, since she moved to

Albany.

oh nothing, she says.

i used to be in a self help

empowerment group.

and we were branded with

the leader's initials.

they held us down,

butt naked,

and used a sizzling cauterizing

pen to inscribe us.

oh, i say, gently moving

my fingers across the R and K.

i was his slave for twelve

years, along with thirty 

other women.

we were all having sex with

him, sometimes

together, but it was cool.

our consciousness was raised

to the point where

we were above jealousy

and attachments.

you may have heard about us

on HBO.   NXIVM.

what's up with the roman

numerals?   i thought only

the super bowl did that.

Yeah, Keith was clever like that.

He's in prison now, though.

He's doing life in a maximum

security prison.

He was railroaded.

all the charges were not true.

that's a shame.

yeah. we all miss him.

playing volleyball with him,

and listening to

his mumbo jumbo

spiels about

the world and behavior.

i hope he's able to play volleyball

in the pokey

with his new friends.

he just loves volleyball.

did you know that,

He was named the smartest person

on the planet once.

he makes Freud and Jung look

like a couple of knuckleheads.

Einstein has nothing on him.

He was so smart.

I wish i had all my money

back though. I gave it all to him.

no offense, but

it sounds like a cult, i tell her.

that's nonsense, she says.

that's what the media and

the defectors keep reporting,

but we were one big happy

family. yes, we worshiped him,

despite him being

so chubby and a nerd,

but it's not a cult. no way jose.

i actually had my own

slaves under me.

they had to do whatever i

wanted them to do.

and if they didn't we had

naked pictures of them all

that we said we show the world.

ha. they had no choice

but to be obedient.

it was so much fun.

i felt bad though when the Mexican

police

arrested him after he fled

the country.

they found him hiding

in a closet curled up

on the floor

in a fetal position.

poor baby. our leader.

so, who do you think will

play the role

of him in the movie? i ask her.

good question...she says.

who do you think, George Clooney,

Brad Pitt?

ummmm, no. i don't think so.

maybe that

George Costanza fellow,

i think that's a more

reasonable choice.

he could put a wig on

and be his twin brother.

dead ringer.

mother nature

i have about three feet

of fallen leaves

in the backyard.

one match and the whole

place goes up.

i shovel out a path

to get to the gate,

as snakes

and mice scatter,

a few birds fly out.

i'm a nature lover

by heart and i don't

like to mess with what

she does

with the trees

this time of year.

creamed beef on toast and other delicacies

i'm not saying

i'm a good cook,

but i can handle

the basics

with a frying pan

and a stick

of butter.

a shaker of salt.

i might do well

at Denny's,

or I hop,

or in the chow line

on the front lines

for the army.

soldiers will eat 

anything.

but i have to tell you

she

was the worst

cook ever.

i chipped my tooth

on her scrambled eggs,

cut my

tongue on a hard

shell. her specialty

was creamed.

beef on toast.

i was afraid to ask.

the only thing she was

really good at,

was cutting open

an avocado,

but leaving me to get

the seed out.

if she was a donut

if she was a donut.

she'd

be glazed

with a shiny coat

of vanilla

frosting.

there'd be a creamy

filling in

the center.

very sweet.

she'd be

a baker's dozen.

good in your mouth,

good going

down,

delicious to taste,

but later

you'll be bent over

the sink,

moaning as you weep.

14 th street

there are some

jobs

i don't want to do.

they're red flags flying

all over the place.

i don't

like the people.

i don't like their dog,

their house

is too large,

or too small.

the crying baby is loud.

the drive is in the middle

of town.

impossible to get

to.

the alley parking.

five different shades

of paints.

cheap wallpaper

they want expertly

hung.

ceilings

and gables.

ladder work.

no parking.

nothing to make 

it fun.

but it's work.

so what the hell

i'll get the job done.

one less egg to fry

when i used to get the heave

ho

from

love interests

i was pursing, i felt bad.

a tinge

of sadness would

come over me,

a blue

light of light sorrow

would shine

down upon my day.

i pondered

what could have been,

if i had 

been a better person,

a nicer guy,

more caring.

if only i had listened

to them

when they talked about

their mothers,

and the tomatoes

growing

in their garden.

if only i had given them

more flowers

and boxes of chocolate

and put them

on a pedestal,

crowing them queen

for a day.

if only.

if only.

incorrigable

i get a warning notice

in the mail,

the community condo board

insists that

i change the color

of my front door,

from a bright red to a dull

burgundy red

in order to conform

to all the other houses

in my row.

it's a monetary fine

added onto the usual

condo fee.

i see the board members

outside my house,

with their clipboards,

shaking their heads,

and making tsk tsk noises.

i'm written up,

again.

last year i put the trash

out before the sun

went down.

all is well

the local

politicians,

most anonymous,

like to stand

out in the middle

of the median

at rush hour

and wave.

they're wearing suits,

with blue

or red ties.

people roll down

their windows

and curse them.

some are hit with

tomatoes

and eggplants,

but they keep on

waving,

smiling.

all is well. all is well.

give me a reason

everyone

has at least one cause

that they

base their vote on.

abortion,

immigration,

transgender rights.

gay or

lesbian.

for some it's inflation,

the cost of gas

and meat,

the climate, 

the cold and heat.

for others it's

just red on down the line,

or blue

straight through,

with little

knowledge

of who they're voting for.

but in the end,

there's hardly

a ripple of change,

for the better or worse,

from the beginning of

time,

until the end.

setting a goal for the day

i set a goal

for the day.

a nap by four p.m.

it's a lofty goal,

i know.

but i'm ambitious

more so than i've

ever been.

i'm determined

to achieve

this goal. 

i'm focused.

it's who i am.

gesundheit

i let out a loud

sneeze

on the bus,

catching it with

my sleeve,

but do i get a God Bless

You

from anyone?

no.

no one says a thing.

instead

people move towards

the front

of the bus

into empty seats.

i want to tell

them, it's nothing.

just a tickle

in my nose.

i'm not sick, i'm not

ill,

or infected.

it's just a sneeze.

i'll even settle for

a gesundheit,

please.

get out of my way

the monster truck

behind me

wants me to pull 

over to the side of the road

so that he

can pass.

but there's no room,

and my street

is approaching, if i get

out of this lane

i'll miss my turn.

he blows his horn,

flashes his lights.

i look in the mirror

at the anger on his face,

the hand gestures.

his fist pumping

in my direction.

he's inches from killing

us all.

his window is rolled

down and i hear

his curses.

there's a baby seat

beside him.

a new pink baby, half

asleep.

the future is not what

it used to be.

the grand prize winner

i win the publishers clearing

house grand prize,

again.

third week in a row.

it's a restricted number,

so i have no

clue who it could be.

Kumar, though

a pleasant gentleman

on the other end,

speaking in a robotic

voice,

wants me to send him

ten thousand dollars

to a PO box in Coral 

Springs

Florida.

it will cover taxes

and the registration fees

needed

in order for them to deliver

my prize check.

with all the balloons and

fanfare

as usual.

they have a Mercedes

Benz too, waiting to be

delivered.

my choice of

colors. i'm undecided

i tell him

as i lay out in the sun,

trying to think of my new

found money

and how it will get spent.

a girl named ivy

i called her ivy,

not because of her

green eyes

and long curled

hair.

it was the clinging

thing,

she did.

i felt her power

even

when i wasn't there.

tearing down

the brick of me.

relentless with her care.

fixing things

i set aside

a day to fix things.

the screen door

for one,

the mesh torn.

the latch loose.

there's mildew

on the cellar wall.

bleach

will do.

a washer in the spigot

should

stop the drip.

there's so many things

i can fix this day.

but i can't fix you.

running the red lights

we need

rules,

we need the stop sign,

the red light,

laws

that keep

the world in order.

we need speed

limits.

we need

structure

to keep civilization

going.

we need

morality

and clear thinking.

rational

leaders.

we have them, but

who listens

anymore or

obeys.

just sleep

you owe

me nothing, absolutely

nothing,

just sleep.

walking distance

it's walking

distance, from me to you.

a short

stroll,

through the woods,

down

the path

across the bridge

over the stream.

wait for me,

i'm coming.

a lifetime of school

it's interesting

how they swim in schools,

their whole

lives.

and yet

still dumb,

look at all the hooks

and lures

stuck

in their stiffened

gums.

caught in nets,

dangling

on filament lines.

schools aren't exactly

the best

way to learn

apparently.

nothing to do with you

i feel sad.

despondent.

depressed and blue.

i have nothing

else to buy that i want

or need.

nothing.

and you

thought my mood

had

something to do

with you.

winterizing

i'll get around to it.

trust me.

it's on the list.

your honey dew list.

i know,

i know.

i need to chop

wood for the fire.

turn off the outside water.

i have to

tighten the screws

on the windows.

weather strip

the doors.

i need to pour

anti-freeze into the cars,

put chains

on the tires.

it's getting cold out.

almost as

cold as it is

in here

with you.

does he need another day

he was here

for a long time.

beret and glasses

alone

at last in the large

chair,

sherry

in his crystal glass,

sipping

towards night.

has he done all that

he could

with his life,

said

what he wanted to

say,

has he loved enough.

or has he left

too much

on the table.

does he need one

more day?

illusions

i don't want

to live on a farm.

i have no desire to own

livestock,

or work that hard,

but i like to slow

down

when i'm driving by

a red barn

with a long wooden

fence around it.

i like to hear

the wind chimes on

the front

porch

of farmhouses.

i enjoy looking at

the yellow tractors,

and old

trucks

parked along the dirt

road.

the rust and oil in

the air.

the smell of cut wood

burning

in a chimney.

there's the illusion of

an idyllic

life going on.

fresh cold milk.

hard work, and family.

i like illusions.

everything is fine, and you?

the fake

smile, the pretend

laugh

is worse

than a cry.

the straining for

joy,

the outright lie

that everything

is fine.

you see in their eyes.

the tilting

of heart,

the quiet sigh

so much gloom,

inside.

the kitchen wall phone

i'm tired

of technology.

of chargers and wires.

texts and emails.

i'm

exhausted by

dings

and rings,

notifications of all kinds.

i miss

paper mail

in the box down

at the end of the road.

the mail

man waving

as he carried his bag

onward.

i miss

the wall phone.

the one

phone in the house

on the kitchen wall,

with a long black

cord

that stretched

to the basement

stairway,

where i could sit

on the top step

and talk in

private

and be left alone.

stop saying it is what it is

at the funeral,

the minister ends the eulogy

by saying,

well,

we loved her,

she'll be missed, but

it is what it is.

i happen to have a rotten

tomato

in my pocket

and throw it at him.

it strikes him

on the side of his face.

he takes out

a handkerchief

and wipes the tomato

juice away,

then says,

yes, i deserved that.

we should all stop

saying

that stupid, ridiculous,

lame phrase,

it is what it is

and say nothing, or find

the right words

to express what we truly

feel.

men no longer needed

at a certain age,

with libido gone,

women

seem to no longer want

or need men.

they've got the money,

the house,

the car,

the kids are grown.

they've got a cat,

maybe three cats,

and plenty of girl friends

to shoot the breeze with,

but they think

it would be nice

to have a man around

to hold hands with,

maybe change a light bulb,

that's all,

just hold hands

and walk around the mall.

the transactional rescue

the word

rescue comes out of her mouth

several times

as she adjusts the halo

on her golden

head of hair.

she rescues

dogs,

she rescues cats.

she rescues friends,

boyfriends.

she's saving the world

one mutt,

one stray animal

at a time.

i like to help others,

she says.

it's who i am.

it's what i do.

maybe, if you let me,

i can also

rescue you.

no thanks, i tell her,

staring at 

the bite marks

on her arms

and legs.

i am what i am Olive

i think about turning over

a new leaf,

again.

maybe for the hundredth time.

i want to be

a better person,

smarter,

kinder,

more compassionate

and less

self-indulgent.

i could read more,

volunteer and give back

to the world.

i think about it over

a second cup

of coffee, but then 

start laughing.

maybe i'm just stuck

with who i am.

the cruise to Greece

when we were

quarantined

on a ship sailing

the Aegean Sea,

somewhere between

Venice and Athens.

stuck in our cabin

because of a Nora Virus

outbreak,

you looked at me

and said,

i didn't bring my meds

and i stopped going

to therapy

three months ago.

remember?

you never told me

about being bi-polar,

i just took you as being

fun and perky,

or sometimes really glum.

but there you were,

holding a steak knife

in your hand

dancing madly in your

bare feet as

the ship swayed.

on a scale of one

to ten, i asked you,

how crazy are you right now,

without your meds?

eleven, you said,

then lunged

towards me.

the bunny trail

when my

older brother found religion,

he came

home from

college

and threw away my

priceless collection

of playboy

magazines

that i had chronologically

stacked in the closet.

they were heirlooms,

precious antique

renderings, air brushed

girls of the sixties.

all of them gone.

the bunnies,

the art work,

the jokes,

the car reviews

and short stories,

the advice column

that helped me 

get along.

all gone.

he still owes me.

the latest cave man

they find

a one inch bone 

under a pile of old

dirt

and construct

a new

cave man

out of it.

ah ha, they say.

this one had a giant

forehead,

and although he was

slightly cross eyed,

he was very good at

cross word puzzles.

look at how

his tiny

finger bone curves,

it definitely

indicates

a writing skill,

gripping a pen or

pencil,

or in his case a long

sharp rock

or stick

that he drew in

the sand.

from the dna we can

tell that he

drank only water

and ate meat

after discovering fire,

inventing the wheel,

and possibly

bongo music.

too busy to care about the world

you either

have to be really young,

or really

old

to protest.

to find the extra hours

to make the signs

and march

with candles

in the air.

those of us in the middle,

have no time

for climate

change, or war,

no time

to change the world,

we're too busy

with work,

with walking dogs,

and changing diapers,

figuring out

what's for dinner,

and pondering

how to kill the weeds

in our yard.

don't get her pregnant

when her father,

Italian

and leather tough,

a mafioso old school

mustache

across his

scarred face,

asked me what my

intentions

were with his daughter,

i cringed.

my heart began

to palpitate.

my tail went between

my legs

and i may have peed

a little.

well, i gulped, with

my tongue tied

mouth. and dry throat.

my intentions are to

marry her.

which we both knew

wasn't

true, at least not now

at the age of

twenty.

jobless with a silly

hair cut

and still living at home.

then he leaned over

and put his gorilla

hand on

my shoulder

squeezing fiercely as

he smiled

and said,

don't get her pregnant,

okay?

is that all you got

it's father smith

on the other side of confessional

screen.

my knees

ache already

from kneeling, and we've

only just now

got started.

it's been five decades

since my last

confession, i tell him,

then continue on with

the script

that i'm reading on my

phone

through the Catholic

channel app.

i know it's him,

he knows

it's me.

but we pretend otherwise.

after all

it's the church.

what's church without

mystery,

smoke and mirrors.

i mumble off a few

transgressions,

sins

of the menial kind.

just a few

minor infractions

part B's

of the ten commandments.

small potatoes in the scheme

of things.

no mortal sins

to speak of.

i wait for my penance

when i finish,

but there's silence.

i hear him breathing heavily.

rattling his rosary.

i feel like

he needs a cigarette

and a drink.

and then, he says,

is that all?  really?

ambivalence

i'd rather not know

anymore

what you're hiding.

what you're really

thinking.

i have no desire

to look under your bed,

or open your

medicine cabinet.

i don't want to know

who's texting you,

who you're talking

to, or what's said.

leave me out of it.

go about your life

and keep it to yourself.

there's no need any

longer to lie.

let's pretend and believe

that everything

is fine.

the sirens going off

the thinning 

silvered hair

is like a siren going off.

the tighter

pants,

the snug shirt,

the recession of gums,

told to you

by a too young

dentist.

the ache of bones

for no

reason.

the new crease in

your brow,

the blurred paper,

readable 

just yesterday.

all adding up that

you may be in

your autumn

season.

getting clean

there

is penance

in cleaning. the emptying

of closets,

the clutter

removed.

on your knees

with

rag

and bucket.

shelves swept of old

notes,

magazines,

dust.

there is forgiveness

in cleanliness,

at least

it feels that way.

the rattle of ice

just the rattle

of ice

in a near empty tumbler

takes

me back,

sends me to another

era

another place,

i hear the music,

i see

the smoke

in the air,

i see the girl

of interest

going

slowly

up the stairs.

everything remembered

is everywhere.

the aloof sea

you can

say a tree is quiet,

the wind kind,

the sky

angry,

you can project whatever

feeling

you desire,

into a thing, or person

even,

pretend

it has a way

of thinking like you

do.

but it doesn't mean

it's true.

sticking around

the birds

have flown to warmer

climates.

to Tampa

and St. Pete,

Miami.

they've taken wing

south.

to white sand

and turquoise

water.

they'll miss the change

of leaves,

they'll miss

the ice

and snow.

they'll miss a life

in full

seasons.

for me,

i cherish what

i know.

the breakfast book of poetry

i ate a book

of poetry for breakfast

hoping to capture

the nutrition

of their poems.

the inky words

dribbled

down my chin.

the metaphors,

the similes,

the cryptic lines

all stuck between my

teeth.

i ate and ate

the food of Sexton

and Plath,

Strand,

and Philip Larkin,

i washed it all

down with

the inebriation

of Bukowski

and Dylan Thomas.

i ate until my

stomach

ached.

until my head hurt,

then lay down to rest.

tomorrow,

i'll eat more.

i haven't given up,

at least,

not yet.

the boss of me

i'll do it later,

i tell myself. it can wait.

tomorrow, maybe,

or the next day.

what's the rush.

what's the hurry.

i'm the boss of me,

i'll get it done.

no need to worry.

organic Annie

i called

her organic Annie.

she was green.

all green.

she bled

tomato juice

ate bananas and

tangerines.

pink slivers of salmon.

chunks

of avocados

and chicken, lean.

i'd see her on the side

of the road

on the weekends

picking up

beer cans with a

flower in her hair.

her long string bean

arms

and legs

moving her along

at a steady pace.

she was a good person.

shame

she starved herself

to death,

never knowing the joy

of a cold

glass of milk

and slice of chocolate

cake.

i want what she has

i see her patience

in the crowded

room

at the DMV.

her calm

demeanor. she sits

and waits

in her pretty dress.

her lovely hat.

her shoes.

no fidgeting,

no concern.

her hands are folded

in her lap.

there is no hurry

about her.

the years have taught

her that.

she waits until

she waits no more.

her number

called.

i want what she has.

imagining never

as a child

crossing the Atlantic

i remember

staring

into the grey wash

of a violent

sea,

wind and salt

against my small body,

my hands gripping

the cold rail

and thinking what

if i let go, what if 

i fell into it,

or leaped.

would i be missed.

would

they save me,

or would i sink

and disappear below

the crashing of waves,

the steel

ship

lumbering over

the hole

i fell into.

never to have the life

that was

laid

before me.

the world drives you to drinking

as a kid

we used to gather

in front of the rite-aide

drug store

waiting for the school bus.

across the street

was Meade's drive thru

liquor store.

i'd watch as the men

and women,

off to work in their

coats and ties,

nice dresses, hats

and white gloves

going through the line

for their pints of booze

and wine.

i didn't quite understand

what it was all

about.

but i do now.

our shared thin walls

i hear the baby

crying

next door. the scream

and wailing

comes through the wall.

the decibels

no different than an ambulance

siren.

it seems

like just yesterday

when i heard

the young married

couple 

making love.

moments after

he carried her across

the threshold.

the symphony of

bedsprings

cascading through

our shared

thin walls,

and now this.

an infant that barely

crawls.

i miss the old piano

teacher

who lived there.

her unmusical students

banging fingers

against the out of tune

keyboard.

he's not like you at all

she finally meets her new

man.

he's in the shower

when she calls me.

he's not like you, she says.

he does all things you

wouldn't do.

you were such a selfish

lover.

i hold the phone away

from my ear,

and ask her, who is this?

i'm cooking him breakfast

right now.

eggs and bacon,

hashbrowns.

i even made a pot of

coffee.

you never stayed

for breakfast.

i just wanted you to know

how wonderful

he is, that's all.

bye for now.

why leave?

children

don't leave anymore.

it's easier to stay

at home,

where they were born.

the same

room where they colored

books

and wrote poems.

free room 

and board.

college

was just a short time

ago,

degrees don't matter

anymore.

thirty is close,

forty

is an ominous bell

ringing.

the playground

i think about

my childhood playground.

the iron

monkey bars,

the rock hard

dirt

below the chain swings

and steep slides.

no parents around.

the mayhem

of it all.

kids crying, falling,

scraping knees

and breaking

arms.

pushing each other

too fast

on the metal wheel,

fighting

and bullying.

it prepared us quite

well for 

the grown up

world.

counting crows

we could

sit

and count crows

on the line

this morning,

do nothing

but add up the birds

that fly by.

we could squander

the day,

why not?

it's so nice out,

excuses

can be made.

the vampire world

i put a tourniquet

around

my bank account

to stop

the bleeding, to stop

the buying.

the world is a vampire

sucking on

my savings,

my rainy-day money,

my penny jar.

the coins between

the cushions of my

couch, my car

are flying out the door.

i'm making a vow

to buy nothing today,

or tomorrow,

not a single unneeded

thing again. let's

see how it goes from

there.

four egg McMuffins

when the thieves

at three am

broke into my car and found

my wallet

under the front seat,

what did they buy

with all my credit cards

and IDs?

gas for their getaway car,

and four egg McMuffins

two apple pies,

and two large drinks

from Mcdonalds

down the street.

the cop suggested that

he could dust

for prints, but no, i said.

the treat's on me.

biting one's tongue

i finally curb

my appetite for saying only

bad things

about people

that i despise,

people 

that will remain nameless

what's the point?

it shows

how cruel i can be,

my dark side.

my unquenched

thirst for beating

the dead horse.

why not say nothing

and make people believe

that you're all good inside?

like a pastry 

both sweet and light.

don't meet them

when you discover

art

or music,

poetry or prose

that you enjoy,

it's best not to meet

the author,

or artist,

the creator of such

beauty,

or joy.

because 

if you don't

like them,

and see that they're

despicable people,

boorish

and cold,

it ruins everything.

move it to the left a little

i don't want

to put anything together anymore.

don't bring me

a desk

in a box, or shelves,

or a chair, please.

i no longer want to

turn nuts and bolts,

cams and screws into

wood,

or pretend wood.

i don't want to read directions,

and use a flashlight

to decipher the small

print

in six languages.

i don't want to search

for tools

to attach

the left leg, part A,

to the right board,

part B.

i want my furniture

whole,

carried in by two strong

men,

or women,

up the stairs

and positioned against

the wall

where i want it, 

or maybe

six inches to the left

where i can look out

the window 

if snow begins

to fall.

all in a day

it's a day,

just a day, a long

quiet day

in the yard

with unfinished

books.

blue skies

and falling leaves.

it reminds you so much

of childhood

days,

of good days,

of days full of imagination

and possibility.

days without clocks,

days without worry.

clean air days.

it's one

of those days.

a day to bottle and hold

dear.

it's everything

you want in a day.

old school doctors

i show my

doctor

the book i'm reading on

the carnivore

diet

and all the benefits

that go with it.

after just a few months

i tell her,

i've experienced

less arthritic pain

in my knees,

i have

clarity of thought,

loss of weight,

sleeping better,

a stronger libido,

(which seems impossible)

i'm eating

one meal a day,

satiated, not wanting to

snack anymore.

my blood pressure

is lower, as are my

triglycerides,

i have more energy.

the absence of sugar

and carbs,

and eating just

meat, eggs, bacon

and butter

has made

me more healthy

i tell her,

and she says, pfffft.

moving her glasses

to the tip of her nose,

we'll see.

we'll see.

although your pants

are falling down now.

wanting your house back

is there

any loneliness

more

lonely

than being in a house

with someone

you don't love,

and who doesn't

love you?

they are under

your skin,

breathing your air,

taking up

precious time.

here but not here.

if only

they'd disappear.

counting zebras

she tells me

about the zebras in Africa,

that they can

run swiftly,

up to thirty-five miles

per hour.

their stripes are like

fingerprints, she says,

used as camouflage

from predators,

no two patterns

are alike.

i haven't thought

about zebras

in such a long time.

maybe as a child

at the zoo,

but now

i can't fall asleep

at night

without them on my

mind.

love language

when my father

used to club my mother

with his

meaty fist,

and she'd recover enough

to toss a dish

at his head,

i listened

at the top of the stairs,

learning a new

language

of love, 

one not

in the book.

deep in the closet

it circles

around, comes back,

fashion,

give it time,

the wide collars,

the big

ties,

the boots,

the sash,

the sequined dress,

the Nehru suit

a leather

vest.

bell bottoms.

it all comes around

again,

but i hope

not.

911 driving

in a hurry,

we seem to be,

to get from one place to

another.

running red lights.

speeding,

recklessly

endangering our lives,

each car

should have a siren now,

with flashing

lights

and a megaphone

telling

all others

to get the hell out

of the way,

i have to get home

to walk

my dog, 

to sit on

the couch and watch

tv for the rest

of the night.

a little action

my father's advice

was simple,

being the wizened

sailor that he was,

having sailed

a dozen seas.

don't start drinking,

he said,

don't worry.

go out,

carouse,

have fun, there's more

fish in the sea.

get yourself a little action,

you'll see,

everything

will be fine.

last resorts

i stare

at the cans of anchovies,

the tins

of sardines.

in water

in oil.

i shiver, i cringe.

maybe later

when the world has

gone to hell,

when there's nothing

left on the planet

to eat,

maybe then

i'll dig in.

mr. bacon and mrs. eggs

they put on their costumes

for the trip

into town

for the Halloween

celebration.

she's a plate of eggs,

sunny side up.

he's bacon.

two strips in a pan.

he looks at her as

he slides into

his tight outfit,

she's bending over

trying to snap

the buttons

on her egg costume.

it was fun

thirty Halloweens ago,

but now

not so much.

he's no longer in love

with eggs,

she's no longer in love

with bacon.

he thinks of French toast,

she thinks

of hash browns.

missing nothing

what is there to miss?

not much.

perhaps

her long nails dragging

across your skin

when you had

an itch.

is there something

else you

long for.

her culinary skills,

love making,

conversation or friendship.

laughter?

no,

nothing i can think of

the snow globe

we make

fond memories

out

of sand

and

cardboard boxes.

we romanticize

the past,

polish it

to a nice glow.

embellishing

the good,

letting all the bad 

fade.

we shake

it up

like a snow globe

and twist the turn

for music.

let's remember

things that

way.

last chance dot com

my friend Jimmy calls me

on the phone

the other day

to shoot the breeze,

he sounds bored and lonely

after going through

a bad divorce with his

Russian pay for order bride,

Dasha.

she arrived in a wooden

crate

that he picked up in

the Port of Baltimore.

i ask him, what's up.

i don't understand women,

he says.

i thought she was the real thing,

the love of my life.

yes, there was a language

barrier, and she only knew

how to boil potatoes,

but we seemed to get along

otherwise.

i mean there was a thirty

year age difference, and it

did get annoying with

her calling me Daddy all the time.

but i liked her, i really really

liked her

even though she was here for

only three weeks.

this is going to take me a while

to get over this, you know.

i mean, how do you get over

break ups, i know you've been

through a ton of them.

therapy, self-help books,

meditation, exercise, taking up

new hobbies, stuff like that

i tell him.

isn't there a short cut, i don't

want to do any of that.

i feel too old to get back out

there on the dating sites.

all the women look like my mother

at this point.

what about LastChance.com

it's a dating site for old people

who are giving it one more shot.

a lot of desperate people,

with neuropathy

and mental disorders, but 

a hey, beggars can't be choosers

at this point, right?

yeah, he says, i guess so.

by the way, did i tell you she took

my cat with her too?

she had absolutely no taste in furniture

as boys

we chose what we wanted

to be

by how we played.

cops

and robbers,

cowboys and Indians,

space men.

rarely were we chefs,

or politicians.

we were baseball players,

football

and basketball players,

aspiring athletes

heading for the hall of fame.

we were soldiers

and sailors.

rarely artists or 

interior decorators,

although

i do remember crying

when my mother bought

a couch

fit for Mt. Vernon,

flowered and overstuffed,

instead of

the streamlined

aqua blue one,

mid-century modern,

the one i picked out.

left overs

my mother

was adamant about leftovers.

into

Tupper ware

they'd go.

mashed potatoes and green

beans.

turkey slices,

stuffing

beside it, all to go.

gravy

in a covered bowl,

slices

of pie.

she'd pack it up neatly

in a brown paper bag,

and mark

each one with our names.

seven bags.

for seven children,

and then

she'd stand at the door,

flash the porch

light

and watch us

as away we drove.

perpetually smiling

it was someone's doll,

with blue

marbled eyes

and

a color of skin

towards

beige,

the frizz of yellowed hair,

barely resembling

hair,

more wire like,

but oh how some child

surely loved her.

did it squeak,

or leak, did it cry

when a string was pulled?

did it's arms bend,

did her legs?

were there clothes to dress

her in.

shoes and an 
Easter bonnet?

who's to know these

things,

as she sits up right 

in the fading light,

perpetually smiling

on tomorrows

trash bin.

rentals

anything with the word

rental

or lease,

attached to it

eventually goes to hell

in a handbag.

houses,

cars.

sex workers.

most people that rent

don't really

care

about the leaky roof,

the dented door,

the hooker with a heart

of gold,

unable to move

forward.

life is a bus stop

for renters,

for the many and varied

lonely souls.

the sunday paper

the news

is full of what i rarely think of,

or worry about.

climate

change, though i do my part

and put

cans and bottles

into the blue

box for

Wednesday pick up.

there's an article on nuclear

attack,

how to survive

and make the most of it.

tips from Heloise

on radiation poisoning.

i have beans

in the cupboard,

and a tube of Neosporin

so i'm ready.

and then there's all the confusing

rage of gender,

of transgender,

of they, them, him, her,

and what not.

what's the point of even thinking

about that?

our mirth

children

purposely find the largest

puddle,

to run through,

the tallest tree

to climb,

the biggest

slosh of mud

roll around in,

the steepest hill

of grass

to roll down.

and then

we grow old

and stop.

fun

is unmeasured

at a young age,

but now

we use

teaspoons to ladle

out

our mirth.

stand near

don't

be impatient with 

those in sorrow.

those injured or

lost.

be kind to the grieving.

it takes time.

it takes time.

stand near

and hold them,

your turn will come,

each life

has a cost.

current dreams and desires

current dreams

and desires

vary

from time to time.

they're different than

when you were young,

rosy cheeked

and dumb,

but the bloom is off

the rose

at this stage,

there is nothing you

truly need.

no longer do you pray

for snow

to get out of school

the next day,

or for summer to last

forever

instead you pray

for the health and well

being,

of not just you,

but for all others.

what are you wearing this year?

i run into my ex

at the grocery store,

she's buying candy for Halloween,

i see a big

orange pumpkin

in her basket.

she's wearing her black cape

and pointed hat,

which is

her daily wear.

her skin is a greenish color.

her nails long

and scary.

the broom she rides

is tied around

her back with a string.

i ask her

what she's wearing

this year for Halloween.

she says, i'm not sure et,

i haven't decided,

you?

love and money

i think too old.

i think

like

men of another era,

i think

of work. how work

is necessary.

the only fear is to not

have work.

to not have

money.

to be on the dole,

in the bread line,

depending on the kindness

of others

to get by.

love comes first

of course.

but money and work

are not far behind.

do nothing

there are days

when you can't stay awake,

they go along

with nights when

you can't fall asleep.

what is it

that makes you stare

into the ceiling of shadows

and light.

what's on your mind,

what is it now,

that needs attention.

how do you make these

things right?

do nothing seems to work.

the yellowed woods

when you look out into

the blonde brush

and yellowed woods,

the red fire

splashes,

the orange stars

of leaves

falling, you think

the world

is okay. that

things are normal

as the season changes,

but it's

an ephemeral

thought,

that soon slips away.

find home

i get the idea

of drifting from job to job,

relationship

to relationship,

apartment to apartment,

never quite

settling down.

always packing your life

away in boxes.

changing

addresses, phone numbers,

trying to remember

where you are

each morning you wake up.

i recall those days

and cringe.

i did it for much too long.

you have to settle down

at some point and

find home.

the rest of life is so much

easier once you do that.

you're one of those now, eh?

you're one of those now

aren't you,

the woman

says to me, as i push my

groceries

onto the belt.

she slowly

rings me up.

you buy nothing sweet

anymore.

i see no sugar,

no cakes or pies,

no bags of chips, sodas,

or ice cream.

no french fries.

no vegetable oils,

nuts.

just steaks,

and meats of all kinds.

eggs

and butter.

bacon.

how long do you think

you can keep

this up?

we'll see, i tell her,

then point at her triple

chin

where a glop

of jelly donut

is trying to roll off.

yo, nice boots, dude

it's strange when a grown

man 

compliments me

on my shoes.

it makes me uncomfortable.

i look down

at them,

puzzled.

they're just

boots, they're brown,

unpolished,

mud caked

and dulled, long

laces with little

zippers on the side.

i almost blush

and shrug my shoulders,

tossing

the compliment

aside.

thank you, i say,

then quickly change

the subject.

spoiler alert

it would be nice

if occasionally God

gave us

spoiler alerts

to what's about to happen

in our lives.

just a little hint,

a small preview

or trailer

of coming events.

just a taste would be

nice so that we

could prepare ourselves

for what's coming next. 

taking pause

i find myself

not finishing things.

the crossword puzzle,

hardly done,

the paper set down,

beside a pen.

a drink poured out,

while

a half meal 

gets swept into the bin.

i start to read,

reread,

but that too

i push aside,

not interested in fiction,

or truth,

the movie, gets turned off.

i feel like

i've seen too much 

of the same things,

repetition has caused me

to hit pause,

or perhaps, 

just give up,

and so it is with love,

again.

caution in the weeds

don't be fooled

by the glad hand, by the treats,

and

sugar.

be wary

of smiling faces,

of those quick to praise,

quick

to do anything to 

get their way.

a heavy dose

of intimacy must

be questioned.

intentions are not always

what they

appear to be.

walk cautiously

in those weeds.

what makes us whole

is it greed or hunger

that makes us

take more at the till,

even when

thirst is quenched

and belly full, 

we keep taking

and taking.

what is

it that drives

us to seek more.

are we ever satisfied,

ever truly willing

to say enough, i'm

done,

i'm whole.

crossing the street

you look at some people

and think,

they're up to something.

somewhere

on them is a gun,

or knife, or a plan

to do damage in the world.

you can feel

the darkness.

it's not the tattoos

and piercings,

or skin color, or

the beat-up car with

blackened window,

it's not the language

they use, or the total

disregard for courtesy

and niceness.

it's beyond that.

for most of them look

just like me

and you.

it's something else

that makes you

cross the street

in a hurry.

a bowl of broth

we like our broth

to be hot,

for the steam to rise

into

our face,

our nose and mouth

with the memory

of yesterdays.

we want it to soothe

us, we want

the kind spoon

to bring it to our lips,

like warm kisses.

satisfying some

childhood dream

now gone, 

but preserved.

the wordless ocean

i'm not surprised

by the wordless grumbling

of the ocean

that has

so much say and yet

remains

quiet,

except in storms.

how often we too,

betrothed,

behave 

in that way.

press on

it's

turning, this wheel,

listen to squeak,

it needs

grease,

so do i,

so do you.

we need to keep

moving,

don't let the rust

of bone

and tendon

slow

you down.

to hell with the wind,

and time,

rain.

press on.

the landlord with his flashlight

troubled

no longer by the landlord

coming in

with his flashlight,

inspecting

the flat 

where you reside

no longer

worried

about mice,

or electricity,

or food, or, car,

the essentials have

been dealt with.

your worries

are different now,

but no

less disturbing,

keeping you awake

at night,

all hours.

three days later

it takes a while

for the doctor to respond

to my

long email with photo attached

of my swollen

wound.

what's this,

i ask.

will i lose my leg,

my life.

should i get my house in order.

draw out a will,

sell off

my stocks and investments.

make plans

for the afterlife.

but he simply says,

put some Neosporin on it.

it just could be

a bug bite.

today blonde, tomorrow who knows.

is variety

truly the spice of life.

sometimes.

sometimes not.

i look at your collection

of wigs.

blonde, brunette

and red,

and think, 

sure, why not,

surprise me,

or should i make

a wish?

we want things the same

we need routine,

a place

to go and be

seen

on a regular basis.

we need

structure

and sameness.

we feel safe when

we do

the same things

over and over.

we like to

order the same

meals,

sit in the same

chair.

we want our barber

to know our

name,

we want the mailman

to arrive

at the same time

each day.

we want to settle

on a place

for

everything,

it gives us comfort

when we return home

from a long day,

and open

the door to see

that

nothing has changed.

the cartwheel in the park

the old man

watches the children

in the park

doing cartwheels

and he remembers when he too

could lift himself

into the air

and set his hands to the ground,

legs going around

like a pinwheel.

he remembers, alright.

and feels that joy,

that same joy,

not sorrow, that soon

it will be

that long good night.

what makes us tick

it's interesting

what makes us tick,

or untick.

what lies below

is the muddy secret

to our soul.

we are all,

we are none.

unique and yet

the same.

but who we really are

is always 

and forever

never quite known.

better days are to come

better still

are days to come.

i may not say it,

but i

think it quite often.

why

spoil the image

though

and put such optimism

out there.

i adjust my mask

and

press on.

thoughts waiting their turn

i like the white room.

white as feathers.

half dark,

half-light.

the calm

desolate absence of color.

words

come easier

in silence.

an island of quiet,

while

thoughts march forward

on cat's feet.

waiting their turn

to be written.

the seven dollar donut

i see the sign

on the side of the road,

next to the church.

God is still here,

it's you

who has moved on.

i nod in agreement

as i sip on my five

dollar cup

of coffee and eat

a seven-dollar maple donut

with bacon on it.

i seem to need God

more in times of trouble,

than when the road

is easy,

the day full of joy

and laughs.

i don't wish it upon me

or anyone, but

at times

i do need that foxhole

with the bullets

flying overhead, 

i need a bomb to drop,

my leg caught

in the barbed wire

as the enemy attacks.

i need fear and pain,

suffering, it seems

to bring me back

into the flock

of the faithful.

just shoot me

it used to be full contact

football,

then basketball

for decades.

outside in the hot sun,

or cracking

ice off the rim.

volleyball was in the mix

too.

occasional tennis,

five mile runs or more.

day long bike rides.

hiking

any mountain in view.

and now this,

here i am with Aunt Trixie

and her friends,

playing

pickleball.

tapping a ball gently

over the shortened net

so that no

one has to run.

the riptide of psychology

i look at my ever growing

library

of psychological books.

studies

of Freud, of Jung.

of the DSM.

i immersed myself in

personality disorders

to the point

of becoming

crazy myself.

seeing every twist

of someone's mouth

as a sign,

every blink,

or gesture as meaningful.

every word,

or sigh, or rolling

of the eye,

had a whole life behind it.

the Id, the Ego.

the Shadow self.

everyone seemed narcissistic

at one point.

i slept with it, ate with it.

walked around

with it.

i could rattle off a diagnosis

in no time.

the weight almost unbearable.

so much

that i nearly drowned.

doing the opposite of why

i started out

in the first place.

whose book is this?

i can't remember who 

lent me

this book.

it's been sitting on the kitchen

counter for six years now.

never read.

partially skimmed

and then a glance at

the blurb in back,

and the slight bio of the author.

it's a hardback copy.

i feel odd about putting

it on the shelf with others,

ones that i've read.

i don't know why

i never sat down and read it.

maybe it was the person

who gave it to me,

he or she, i can't remember.

did i like them.

we're we in love.

was i bored with them,

were they bored with me.

did things end badly?

perhaps. they often do.

the book is still here, though.

waiting,

for what, i wish i knew.

finally a happy poem

it's the most

common bar room boast

late in the evening

after a few too many

adult beverages.

when i die, i want to die

in my sleep

at the ripe old age

of ....fill in the blank,

after a good meal, 

great sex, and a smile

on my face.

i want a party, not a funeral

when i pass away.

i want dancing

and drinking,

and fun.

throw confetti in the air

at the end

and blow a horn, but,

so few go out

that way.

for most it's dreary

drip drip drip of another

hour, another day,

another week,

another year,

down the inevitable

drain of oblivion.

soon forgotten.

friends gone.

spending your last

few dollars

in a village of elderly

old souls.

your life sustained by a spoon

of oatmeal at the end

of the hand of a complete

stranger.

so it goes.

a change of scenery

strange how our curiosity

wanes.

how we lose

interest in old loves,

even old

friends,

distance and time

shoving

everyone aside.

you see their names

in your phone,

their pictures, but

shrug

and do nothing, never

bothering

to dial

or drop a line.

it's not about caring,

or wondering,

it's just that other things

and people

are now on your mind.

the best people

with some

you don't need an invitation.

you don't

need to call ahead

or text, okay,

maybe a text.

but for the most part

you just show up,

no need to knock either.

just turn

the knob

and enter yelling out,

hey.

it's me.

are you dressed,

i'm coming in.

what's up, what are you

doing?

let's grab dinner.

a single yellow leaf

the art,

the beauty of the one

yellow leaf,

small

and translucent,

stuck to my windshield

does not escape

me.

it's endearing.

it feels like

an embrace of some

sort.

a message.

a small bright kiss

on the glass

of me

as fall settles in.

in the cold shadow

it's cold

in the shadow,

the sun no longer a part

of this day.

it's slipped

behind clouds and trees

the concrete

edges

of buildings no

longer white

but grey.

it's cold here

on this bench,

the one i go to by

the lake.

i expect you to show

up any minute

now,

i've been waiting my whole

life,

being patient,

biding my time.

i hope it hasn't been

an enormous

mistake.

uncle sam wants you

although i feel like

i'm a good person,

i've never volunteered

for anything.

never helped

putting up someone's

fence,

or painted

a room that didn't involve

money.

never ladled soup, or worked

in a hospital

answering phones, or

gathering bloody bandages

for the trash.

i've never

gone down to the shelter

to sweep

or mop,

i've never joined any clubs,

or military

organizations.

never went down to the elementary

school

on election day

and helped people vote.

i'm not a volunteer.

not a peace corps worker,

or UNESCO, whatever

that is.

my therapist suggested

though

that i should go to Africa

and dig

latrines

to help me get over

a failed relationship.

i'm not sure why she would

want to punish me

like that. 

dodging death

when you get a headache

it's normal

to think the worse.

you test your vision by

closing each eye

to see how blurry they might be.

of course it's a massive

brain tumor.

what else could it be.

you put an ice pack on

the back of your head

and carefully lie down.

almost tripping over a black

high heel left on the floor,

and then you remember

that Betty came by last night

with a bottle of tequila.

term life insurance

there's a skinny

white teenager at the door.

knocking

with authority.

it's almost dark out.

i get the baseball bat

out of the closet in case

there's trouble.

i slowly open

the door

and take a look at him.

he's freckled with

red hair

and holding a clipboard.

hello, he says.

i'm selling life insurance

in your neighborhood.

he looks all of fifteen.

what?

i say, still holding the bat.

i'm in my underwear

and the smoke alarm

is going off.

my burger is burning in

the pan.

maybe this isn't a good time,

the kid says.

but here's my card.

he hands me his card

and i close the door.

yeah, fish i can do

as much as i like steak

and chicken

beef.

pork, little baby lambs,

or sheep,

i couldn't actually kill

an animal

unless i was starving.

i couldn't look

a cow in the eye,

a pig,

or bird before i 

raised the knife

and turned them into meat,

but for some reason

fish is a whole

other thing.

self admiration in small doses

it's a skill

you mastered in high school

parallel parking.

it still makes

you proud

to back into a tight space,

hitting neither the car

in front of you

or behind.

no scraping the curb.

with

one hand on the wheel,

using the rear-view mirror,

another arm over

the seat, looking back

you guide

your car in,

impressing no one,

but yourself.

but still. pretty neat.

cat's in the craddle

sometimes you feel a little blue,

like when

your only son,

or at least 

the only son you know of 

forgets

to send you a Father's Day card,

a birthday card,

and a get well soon card.

but you hold your hopes out

for Christmas.

who doesn't send a Christmas

card to their father?

but then i shake the sadness off

and realize how busy he is.

walking the dog, cooking

and cleaning the house

while his girlfriend is at work.

playing basketball with his

friends, traveling

and going to movies.

hanging out with his mother

down the street.

maybe he's taking classes or

something. working on another

college degree.

writing poetry.

i'd be forgetful too if i had all

that on my plate.

he had such a wonderful

childhood too.

bless you, almost

sometimes

you're about to sneeze,

but nothing happens.

it feels like

a lost moment.

you were so ready.

prepared with a kleenex

for what was

about to happen.

it's disappointing in a way.

not heartbreaking,

but still a little bit

of a let down.

we all need a good sneeze

now and again.

sort of like crying.

stuff just has to get out.

we need to talk

as soon as i hear the words,

we need to talk.

i hold my hand up

and go upstairs to the bedroom

to start packing her bags.

not mine,

hers.

i clean out the closet

of her clothes.

i empty the drawers.

i get a box for all her make up

and hairbrushes,

and all the mysterious tubes

and lotions, perfumes 

that create the image of who

she wants to be.

a few hours later.

i go back down.

she's still sitting at the kitchen

table, her hands folded

around a cup of tea.

we have to talk, she says again.

please, sit down.

let's discuss things.

nah, no thanks i tell her.

i'm heading out for a long walk.

do what you have to do

and leave a forwarding address

for your mail. later.

something wonderful is about to happen

as you get older,

you have to get up a lot

at night

to go pee.

or at least try to.

sometimes it's like

a fire hose

or a racehorse,

while other times

it's a slow drip,

so slow that you give

up and go back to bed.

you can't coerce it,

you can't beg, or bend,

or shake it.

maybe later, you tell

yourself.

you turn the light

off, find your way back

to bed,

and say a bad word

that rhymes with truck.

okay, where was i,

you say to your self

trying to reconnect to

the dream you were just

having where something

wonderful was about

to happen.

we all make mistakes

there was the NYC girl,

the 
Chinatown

girl,

the Solomon's Island

girl.

the high roller,

the smart girl.

the artistic girl.

the flight attendant.

the scientist.

the doctor.

the lawyer.

the cupcake baker.

the Playboy

Bunny.

the equestrian.

the tattooed girl.

the waitress at Denny's.

the tall girl.

the short girl.

the boney girl.

the busty girl.

the seamstress. 

the dominatrix.

the cowgirl.

the student,

the teacher.

the Librarian.

Zoo Girl.

Blondie.

Red.

the religious girl.

blabby girls.

quiet girls.

athletic girl.

tubby girl.

the girl in Baltimore,

in Cleveland,

in Berlin,

in Seattle,

in Florida.

in Jersey.

St. Louis.

the high school sweetheart,

the college

coed.

the girl next door.

the one

who got away is each

and everyone

of them.

so, i made a few mistakes

along the way,

three to be exact.

so sue me.

that once sweet wine

it's a long distant

wedding

in Pittsburgh.

i look at the invitation

and sigh.

dead of winter in Pittsburgh.

who are these people.

do i even

know the groom,

the bride?

can we do a face time

thing,

a skype,

or zoom.

i'm not good with weddings

theirs

or mine. but

i understand their optimism.

love is a potent

elixir.

you never believe that

it will

fade in time,

that you will sober up,

no longer drunk

with that once sweet wine.

the preparation

i prepare

for the maids to come.

i set out the clean sheets.

i tidy up

the towels

that lie on the bathroom

floor.

i put things away,

stack books,

hang clothes in the closet.

i empty the dishwasher,

wipe the counters

and bag the trash.

i tape the note in spanish

on the door

to leave

the keys in the house,

not under the mat.

okay.

have at it.

twelve years and more

most hours

were wasted in the classroom.

whether the subject matter

or the inept

instructor, something

kept you from

listening too hard,

or from raising your hand

to ask a question.

you were bored.

doodling, writing,

daydreaming,

staring out the window

at the freshly cut lawn.

gazing at the clock

on the wall.

waiting, waiting for

the bell.

twelve years and more,

were a painful

crawl.

we hadn't talked in a week

there was romance

in the pay

phone.

the coins stacked as

the operator

connected your call

long distance.

it may have been

raining,

cold and wet

as you stood in

the glass booth,

the bifold doors

pulled shut,

turning the  dial to

O, then reading out

the number

to whom you'd like

to speak to.

your heart beat fast.

as you waited 

to hear her voice.

it's been too long,

a week,

perhaps.

the monk life

i could be a monk for about an

hour,

and then i'd

need coffee,

or a show on netflix,

a new book,

a date with Elanore.

i need stuff.

things.

food, clothing. house,

cars.

i don't have a bone

of non-attachment in me.

i could never

handle a vow of silence.

i'd be whispering to some

other monk

about how the roast

needs more seasoning.

or asking if his

robe was itchy too.

i'd be staring

into my phone with 

every ding.

i'd last about an hour

before they'd 

kick me out,

send me tumbling down

the mountain,

out of the monastery.

what's wrong now

i think she's angry with me.

i can't tell anymore

with women.

they get quiet on you.

aloof and distant.

then suddenly everything

is okay again.

when she says, i'm sleeping

in the other room tonight.

your mind races, what did

i do now.

or yesterday?

i saved her the last piece

of cake, doesn't that count

for something.

oh wait a minute, right.

her birthday.

he's alone

i see him

around his fire,

his yard clean.

he's alone.

i stand at the window.

he looks

up and waves,

then puts his hands

back on his face.

i move away.

i've been there too.

best to leave

that alone.

sorrow being holy

ground.

309 Dorchester Ave.

it was a house well

lived in.

the broken window,

the screen

ripped out

of the back screen door

so that the dogs

could come and go.

coffee rings on

the table,

spills and scrapes

along the walls.

cobwebs

in the basement

stuffed with toys

outgrown.

broken locks,

cold rooms and closets

without doors.

drawers stuck,

the loud refrigerator

never resting

with its buzz.

the mud yard

squared off by a rusted

chain link fence.

someone else lives there

now.

white bread and bologna

my dearly departed

friend

and worker,

Jake,

used to stroke his

gnarly beard

and yell out the window

at pregnant

women.

he'd say, hey baby,

i know what you've been

doing.

but he didn't mean

any harm.

he was just being Jake,

cigarette in one

hand,

beer in the other.

his painter pants below

his waist.

his lunch bag

holding a sandwich

of white

bread and bologna

that the shelter gave him.

down at the art center

we take

pride in our pottery,

our knitted

hats and scarves,

our numbered paintings.

down

to the art center we go

to make things.

hands

on the cold clay,

straddling the wheel,

holding brushes,

welding

pieces of metal, and naming

the project,

Today.

we take fragile sticks

and the skin of birch

trees

and create a feeling,

an emotion,

something

we're not quite sure of,

but it pleases us.

keeps

our mind free off what

lies ahead, what lies behind.

what shores await

i see the old man

in the lake

with his ancient boat,

creases in the planks

taking on water.

he's wearing his green hat,

his favorite shirt,

his hands are on the oars,

pulling, pulling

against

the thickness of water.

he's still rowing,

still moving,

still alive and wondering

what shore he'll

arrive at next.

good bones

good bones,

the agent says,

as she

spreads

her arms out wide

to present the old house.

brick

and mortar,

hardwood,

and steel, plaster walls.

1930s,

she says it has good

bones.

my father used to say

that about

cars and women.

good bones, he'd said,

look

at bone structure,

see how they sway

in the wind,

how they stand up

to bad weather.,

hard times.

can they sustain

reliability over time?

she had great gams

i met her in New York,

she was a Radio City 

Musical Hall dancer.

one of those high

kicking babes

in red stockings

that they bring out for

the holidays.

i had a front row ticket

and we caught each other's eye

as she stood

arm in arm, with the other girls.

kicking their legs

in the air.

she winked, i winked.

admittedly

it was all about the legs.

we met after the show.

hit it off and eventually

got married.

trouble was. she had nothing.

no cooking skills,

was mediocre in the love

making department,

and refused to get a real job.

i'm a dancer, she'd say.

God gave me a gift, and

that's what i do.

plus she smoked and drank.

but damn,

those legs kept us together

for years,

sadly though,

she eventually developed

some varicose veins,

her knees got sort of knobby

and she injured her meniscus.

so her career ended.

i think about her sometimes

around the holidays

and wonder what she's up to.

chopping down the tree

my father

once pulled over at the side

of the highway

opened the trunk

and took

out an axe.

i watched him

from the back window,

as he took a slug

of his pint

of whiskey,

then went into the woods

and chopped down

a tree for Christmas.

the state park was full

of trees.

he dragged it back

to the car

and strapped it to

the roof with rope.

it was snowing,

and the woods looked

beautiful

along Mt. Vernon

Highway,

heading towards

the city.

guaranteed weight loss

did you lose weight,

an old girlfriend says,

bumping into her at the pumpkin

patch

near the gas station.

you look marvelous.

a little i tell her,

shyly.

i've been working out.

plus i went through an

emotional

breakup.

you too? she says.

in my book it's the best

way to drop

pounds.

sometimes i start a relationship

just to break it off

with someone.

i make myself feel so bad,

that i don't eat.

i think i lost fifteen pounds

when we broke up,

i tell her, you?

i lost nearly eleven.

great.

high five, she says, putting

her hand up in the crisp

fall air.

i slap it and move on,

looking for the perfect

pumpkin.

Christmas Cookies

i drop off

at the church,

two bags of sugar,

unopened,

powdered and granulated.

a sack

of almond flour,

and unbleached white

flour.

baking soda

in a small red can.

a bottle of canola oil,

vegetable oil,

each unopened.

a tin of Crisco,

ten ounces of chocolates,

pecans

and walnuts,

a tiny bottle

of vanilla extract.

one roll of parchment

paper,

and six cookie cutters

in the shape

of snowflakes,

Santa,

Christmas trees

and reindeer.

i'll keep the butter,

but

i won't be making cookies

this winter.

glued to nothing

i am glued to nothing,

to no one, i'm

not set in

my ways,

i refuse to be

stuck in the past.

my views on politics

continue

to sway.

what i eat and drink

changes

from day to day.

what i read

what i watch is

an hourly mystery.

i feel indifferent about

the weather.

bring snow,

bring rain.

i'm undecided on nearly

everything.

including you.

we have a pill for that

what ails you?

headache,

stomachache,

high cholesterol,

high blood pressure?

we have a pill

for that.

can't sleep,

can't get up,

low libido,

hair loss,

we have a pill for that.

need more energy,

a spring in your step,

clearer skin,

something to help

you stay focused,

stay slim,

we have a pill for that.

depressed and lonely,

angry

and crazy,

without mercy,

without compassion.

sorry.

you're on your own

with that.

the beauty unfound

is the grocery clerk

a genius,

maybe, the man cutting

the lawn,

the woman

lying on a bench,

barefooted.

are they smart, creative.

intelligent souls?

maybe,

maybe,

but where did it go wrong.

what's lacking,

was it the mother or

father

who kept love away,

or who wouldn't let

them go.

who's to know, but you

can't help but wonder,

if there's art

within them, inventions,

books

and poetry,

paintings and songs?

a familiar road

you reach a point,

of saying things like, oh well.

nothing changes,

we've been down this road

before.

the bumps and bruises,

the missteps

along the way,

are all familiar.

the broken heart.

etc.

and yet. as you accept

the world for what it is,

it's all still

a mystery,

you begin to say things

like,

don't worry about dying.

just live.