seven a.m. till ten

the waiting room

is nice.

contemporary. 

black and brown

decor with buttery

soft

leather seats.

a state of the art

coffee machine.

cold bottled water

in a glass cooler.

Vanity Fair

and Vogue magazines,

current,

on the tables.

there's music piped in.

young music.

and the big screen

tv is on, HGTV.

and yet

three hours, feels like

three days,

waiting for the car

to be done.

the pertinent numbers

ninety two percent

live

more than

fifteen

years, after the surgery,

he tells me,

holding

up a stat sheet from

the New England Journal

of Medicine.

he's underlined

in yellow

the pertinent numbers.

we used

to talk about

running backs

and guards,

cheerleaders, 

the opening of a new

movie, as we

threw the ball around

the yard.

taking notes at the end

he tells me

he can't remember things.

the time

of a meeting,

who

called.

the day of the week.

he writes everything down.

his wife has pinned

notes to his sleeve.

i see the quiet

glaze

in his still blue eyes.

the tumble

of words

trying to find one word

that fits.

so close

in age, we are,

it's a fearful thing,

as a chill runs down

my spine.

the fallen fence

it's a fallen fence

that

the man repairs in his old

boots, his hat

for shade, 

his weathered

clothes,

he takes the dog

with him,

down by

the now wide

two laned road.

what is there to keep in,

or out,

nothing,

he tells his

wife, or maybe

everything,

but still, with hammer

and nails,

new lumber,

with the day ahead of him,

down he goes.

life after life

life

after death,

there must be.

it can't end like this,

can it?

no salvation or

punishment in the end?

No God,

no

Christ.

no miracles.

just ashes to ashes,

dust to dust.

i can't

believe that,

though in hard times

i'm easily

persuaded

to go along with it.

of course they're happy

of course

they're happy. who wouldn't be

happy in

a seven room house

with gables.

who has gables

anymore?

and then there's

the money,

the pool in the yard.

look how

neatly the hedges

are trimmed.

the lines of grass so

splendidly

cut on the lawn.

look, there they go.

man and wife.

boy and girl.

what else is there

to know?

even the dog seems

happy,

as he takes his walk,

still clutching

his plastic bone.

before the next night arrives

you awaken

relieved that it was only a dream.

the time

portal you

just went through

was a fabrication

of the mind.

turning back

the clock

to troubled times.

maybe it's best not

eat

something sweet

or hot

before the next night

arrives.

rise and shine

it's too early.

the paper boy has yet

to throw

my newspaper

into the bushes, the milk

man

has yet to set

a bottle of cream

on the porch.

the local thieves

haven't

even jiggled the knob

of my door,

or gotten

into my car to rummage

through my things.

it's early.

the fox

are still in the trash

by the curb.

even the moon is still

up and at em.

the dining room table

we used

the old dining table

for homework.

each child to his own chair,

his or her

own space.

the pencil sharpener

attached

to the kitchen door.

blue lined notebooks,

pencils and pens,

compasses

and protractors,

rulers and the nubs

of pink erasers.

the overhead

light

beaming down.

a dog or two beneath

the table

mistaking it all for

dinner.

the endless blue fold

these ships

come

in and leave again,

on white

sails

from

the small harbor.

flags

on wind,

sailors, groups of men.

women.

sea worthy souls

on

the water.

into the sunset,

into the salted air,

into the

endless blue fold,

their

home.

can you step back, please

like houses,

we each

have our good side,

and bad

side.

i like to turn to the left

when

being photographed.

less sun

damage,

less wrinkles,

less

crevices from

years

of weather.

less worry over there.

take a few more steps 

back please,

maybe twenty

yards,

farther, 

farther, okay

now take the picture

from there.

you eat the last piece

just a small

piece

please, no smaller,

use

a baby spoon,

the tip of

your finger,

just a dollop of that

chocolate

cake.

no more than that.

Satan get behind me.

i'm on the wagon

and tempted

to fall off,

so, then again, no,

maybe none.

go ahead you eat

the last piece.

cut from the same cloth

as time

goes on you begin to lump

them all

together.

all cut from the same cloth.

politicians

and lawyers,

actors

and preachers.

anyone in the public eye,

with a public

image to uphold.

it seems

they all lie.

they all cheat,

they all have something

to hide

beneath their secret lives.

of course they

do, each just a text message

or email away,

or caught on tape

before

going to the pokey

with soon to be forgiven

and forgotten

disgrace.

two day vacation

i'll be right out,

she used to say, hold on,

i'm coming.

i just need to fix my hair,

do this,

do that.

turn the lights off,

unplug

the iron,

lock the back door

and water

the plants.

i'd beep the horn

as i waited in the car,

already low

on gas.

the children asleep

in the back

seat.

then at last

she'd come out

with one more piece

of luggage

to tie to the roof.

there was

no more room in the trunk

for her.

what's for lunch?

i thought

by now, the snake i killed

yesterday

would be gone,

but no.

there it lies twisted

and cold,

the weapon

of it's destruction

still there,

blood stained.

i thought some animal

would have

enjoyed a meal

of sorts

by this time,

a fox, a raccoon, perhaps

a flock of black

birds

or vultures,

for an afternoon

luncheon.

what i really called for

some call

just to chat, to say hello

and shoot

the breeze,

talk trash,

while others have something

on their mind,

something

they need to say,

or get off their

chests.

maybe a favor to ask,

but you have to wait

for it

until the end,

enduring

as best you can,

being patient

for what comes last.

it's what's best

when you

go without what pleases you.

it wakes

you up to your needs

and desires.

the flesh.

keeping sweets

at a distance

and you,

saddens me, but

it's what's

best.

delaying the end

i stayed

up too late reading.

too deep

into the book, 

the plot

thickening,

wanting to go forward,

but not wanting

to finish.

the sign of good

writing, no doubt.

another

page tonight.

just a taste as i delay

the end.

the can opener

found in a drawer,

i can feel it my hand,

the weak

metal

can opener, barely clawing

it's way

around a can

of tuna fish,

or spam.

my small wrists efforting

around

and around, slowly,

as the teeth

bit into the lid.

hardly was

there reward.

the nuns at St. Thomas More

on the edge

of the concrete playground,

fenced in,

they stood guard.

black robed.

hands folded in front

of them,

below the hanging crosses.

eyes resting

on no one.

they surveyed the children.

the red ball

flying.

they were distant, aloof,

were they thinking

about love,

about God,

about their own childhood

now gone?

the copperhead

it's innocent,

sinless

one might say.

without fault or anger.

there's not a vindictive

or malicious thought

in it's reptilian brain,

and yet,

you stand back

with brick and rake

in hand 

as it raises it's head 

with wet fangs.

it stares at a spot

on your leg,

what choice do

you have?

the blue laws

there used

to be blue laws

in Maryland.

strange

state laws

stopping the selling

of wares

and goods.

the liquor stores were

closed.

the grocery stores.

hardware

and department stores.

Sunday was deemed

a holy day.

you had to stock up

on Saturdays,

or go without.

now

everything is open

24/7.

holidays mean nothing

anymore.

it's all about

cha ching.

more and more.

let yourself in

i crack

the ice out of the metal

tray,

drop three or four

cubes

into the tumbler.

a splash

of gin,

a splash of tonic

a slice

of lime.

now to find a record

to spin,

perhaps

Marvin Gaye,

i'll be on the sofa,

please, no need to knock,

no need

to ring the bell,

just let yourself.

in.

age

you can't outrun it,

or trick it

into submission, 

you can't hide from

its hand

as it takes hold of yours.

it finds you before

you know it,

stepping gently,

where once

you gaily ran.

everything still here

the bench

with a metal square

and a name

inscribed

catches the sunlight,

striking my

eye.

i read the name

out loud

and sit, as he must

of sat with

the geese in the air,

the splash

in his ear,

children

running from their

parents towards

the sand

and water.

everything that he

saw,

still here.

a different cup of tea

i try

leaves of grass

and get

nowhere.

war and peace,

the Russian novels

by Dostoevsky,

the poetry

of Dickinson.

i'm either too dumb

to get it

or too young

of mind.

boredom sets in,

before i push each

aside,

still not my cup

of tea.

the speck in your eye

i have a difficult

time

removing the speck from

my own

eye, but have no

trouble

pointing at yours

and asking

why.

back to square one

the trouble

with wisdom and experience

is that

it dies on the vine.

the young

must learn what the dead

did.

so it's back to square

one,

time after time.

the bohemian life

he took

pride in his bohemian

lifestyle.

despising

labor of any sort.

keeping

the callous from hand

or foot.

a starving

artist,

his smile said, his

words

accumulating in an

endless

unfinished book.

the half

filled canvas,

the one song,

yet unsung.

they'll see my genius

one day,

he said,

lying to himself,

and those

around.

happy time

i see a bird

smiling

as he carries a stick

in his beak,

winging his

way

towards

his new nest.

another with a worm

wiggling,

fat and round.

it's happy

time

as winter retreats.

by the balls

i quit,

the man says,

standing in the office

at the big desk.

i quit.

i can't work here any

longer

under these conditions.

i'm not paid

enough

to work here, for what

i do ten hours

a day.

i quit.

go home and think about

it the boss

says.

sleep on it and

then decide.

see what your children

and your wife

have to say

see how they feel

when there's no food

to eat,

no money

to make it through

another day.

the hunt

far into

the woods, you hear

the dog.

he's after

something, off the leash,

running.

he's

hunting.

we all are,

for something.

the inside crowd

you hear

more and more people

talk

about staying home,

staying in,

not going out into

the cold,

the wind,

the chaos

of what life has become.

they hunker down

with their loved

ones behind

locked doors,

safe and sound.

me too,

i'm joining the inside

crowd.

salted nuts

damn these peanuts.

this can,

this bottomless pit,

this tin can

of salted nuts,

i can't stop either

hand from

dipping in and eating

one more,

one more.

just one more handful

and i'm done.

really.

i'm done.

the big cigar

like a small child

in the playground

or in the yard,

or on the floor you need

toys now

to retire.

maybe a boat,

or a sports car, perhaps

a beachfront

condo.

something to distract

you,

fill your day as the slowly

sets on who

you are.

take up golf,

or pickleball, or poker

down at the knights

of Columbus hall.

bocci ball?

maybe sit on the big porch

and smoke

a big cigar.

read my mind

i'm writing

to you in invisible ink,

she says.

everything i need

and want to say is on

that sheet of paper.

but you'll never see it,

or know what it is that

i've written.

just like

in real life.

it's a game i play.

time out

you know

yourself. you know

how

much room you need,

the space

required to renew

and recharge

to get back out into

the world.

you know the distance

you must

keep

from people.

where to sit, where

to go,

where to rest.

you know yourself.

finally you settle into

an age

where you know what's

best.

the man keeping her down

i reach into the stack

of green

avocados, but before

i can

take one,

a woman, pushes my hand

away

and takes the one

i was about to pick up.

what's the meaning

of this, i ask her.

she puts my avocado

in her basket.

i've been oppressed

too long, hse says,

it's time that,

me, as a woman

got what i want.

we heard a splash

they dredge

the pool of water

searching

for someone,

a body, perhaps.

the divers

are in there, a small

boat

with a lantern held,

drifts across the blackened

water.

the moon is behind

the clouds.

these nights never end

well.

last call for love

my friend

Gretchen is on the hunt

for a new man.

she's had her

hair and nails done

and is doing Keto.

she's blonde now.

she's on a dating site called

last call, last

chance dot com.

i want one more soul

mate, before i die, she says.

not a cell mate.

i want true love this time,

romance.

i want a man who adores

me, a man

who sees me 

for who i really am.

skeletons and all.

i nod.

but then ask her,

if that's a good idea.

the day the wind carried her off

put some rocks

in your pocket i tell her

as we set

out for a walk

in the howling wind.

fifty mile an hour gusts

the excited weatherman

says on the morning

broadcast,

and he's not whistling

dixie.

we get outside and away

she goes,

her thin, gaunt vegan

body is suddenly

airborne,

flying like a paper airplane

in the sky.

she tumbles off into

the clouds,

the wind carrying her

body off into the distance,

like a kite,

disappearing with

a whispering, help me

cry. but too late,

i continue on for coffee,

oh well, back to the drawing

board

on another soul mate.

the bus to Chinatown

we took the Chinatown

to Chinatown

bus to NYC

one year.

a harrowing trip where

we had

to stand up

almost all the way there.

gripping

the straps that hung

from the ceiling.

swaying

side to side as we sped

down the Jersey

Turnpike.

it was fifty bucks each,

round trip.

which gave us money

for Kung Pao Chicken,

at Jimmy's

on Mulberry St.

April First

when we were younger,

Laurie would call

on April first and tell

me that

she was with

child.

my child.

there was

no doubt in her mind.

that it was my

biscuit baking in

her oven.

i'd begin to shake

and quiver,

sit down,

and try to calm myself,

as she

asked me what names

we would choose

if it was a girl

or boy.

it worked for a few

years,

scaring the pee out of me,

but not now.

cooking God's books

they finally catch

the woman stealing money

from the church.

quiet as

a church mouse, she was.

plain

and ordinary, a peaceful

soul.

but what to do?

she did the accounting

for decades,

nine to five,

weekends too.

there were flowers

on her desk.

but little did anyone

know

how she cooked the books.

no one questioned

her mink stoles,

her trips to Europe,

her Mercedes Benz,

the jewelry, the silver

the gold.

everyone seemed to have

their eyes closed

as they knelt in prayer.

everyone was surprised,

shocked.

how could there be

a sinner amongst us,

especially her.

i know, but why

as  children

we want

to know why.

everything

before

us is a mystery.

why

why

why

and then you get older,

wiser,

more educated,

but still

deep within there

is always

that lingering question

about

nearly everything,

why.

that was never there

the old men

will tell you, all with

the same

wide eyed

look of amazement,

that

this area here used to

be a farm,

people road

their horses, down

the dirt road.

they point

to where a dunkin

donut shop

is and

a mr. tire, and tell you.

that was never

there.

and that plot of land

over there

where the town houses

are,

and the mall,

that used to be a swamp,

we'd fish

there.

it's your ice

the ice

on the windows,

a thin glaze

of cold,

a reminder of sorts.

and as i watch

you from

the window,

angry

at me or something,

or someone,

the energy

you have, makes

it an easy

to get

it done.

the pope and taco Tuesday

you wonder

if the pope ever gets tired

of being the pope.

wearing those big pointed

hats

and white robes,

always worrying about

coffee spills,

and taco Tuesday.

does he want to slip

out a Vatican

window

in his jeans and t-shirt

and go dancing.

have a few drinks,

meet some babes

along the boulevard.

does he weary of being

sinless.

never telling a lie,

or over indulging himself

on red wine.

he must have a secret

life,

we need to dig into

this, go through his things,

his computer,

his closet.

that's where most secrets

are.

i bet there's a bikini

picture of

Bridget Bardot

somewhere under his mattress.

rumors of war

maybe we'll go

to war

with China, or Russia,

or Iraq

or Iran.

Syria seems to be jostling

in line

for a war.

our guns are pointed,

so are theirs,

but for now,

we need each other,

so let's not,

and say we did,

pretend we're friends

like we've always

done before.

give me a blue door

it's a blue door

that she desires.

she wants

it painted blue, not sky

blue,

or robin's egg

blue.

but more of a deeper

blue,

somewhere

between a royal

blue and indigo.

like her eyes,

she says, adding

that

the eyes are the windows

to the soul.

she wants a blue

door.

i do what i'm told.

woe is me

we like to fill

our average child's head

with

possibilities. we give them

trophies for losing,

for coming

in fourth place.

we tell them they can

be anything

they want to be,

if they try hard enough

and believe.

but they're average.

they're 

underachievers, a bit lazy

and spoiled

and entitled.

half don't know how

to spell or read.

straight c's and a sprinkling

of d's

they get a gold star

and an oatmeal

cookie.

the next generation,

woe is me.

i'll get there when i get there

rested, but slow

to get out the door,

you linger, sip your coffee.

peruse the book

you'll dive

into once home.

there is no rush to work

these days

those days

are done.

it's i'll get there when

i get there,

from now on.

the open window

the window

left open

in the night so that

the cat

can come and go as

she pleases

lets in the rain too.

the cold.

we need to have

a talk,

the cat and i.

we need to set

boundaries

if this relationship

is to work out.

more peace to come

the old

general is unapologetic

as

he explain

that you need

violence, you need

to kill

in order to have peace.

we need war,

he says.

he's covered

in medals.

he predicts more

killing

is to come in order

to have

more peace.

five easy pieces

i position

the new shiny black

piano

into the corner of the basement

living room.

i set a crystal

vase of roses on it

and a candelabra.

i put on my long

black coat

over a crisp white shirt

and dress pants,

new shoes,

then sit down at the keyboard.

i open

up the book.

step one of the beginners

guide to playing

the piano.

i'm ready.

the pill dispensary

my father

calls me and asks me to

send him

some Viagra.

can you get some on

your phone?

he thinks that cell phones

are magical

things, pill

dispensaries.

can you get me

a hundred or so he

says.

he tells me that he doesn't

want to start something

that he might not

be able to finish.

he's 95, but dating again.

after reading

the obituaries on a daily

basis and seeing who's out there,

who's lost a husband.

he asks me to send him

another jug

of baby oil too

and a new shower curtain.

i don't ask him

why,

i just shake my head

and tell him

no.

no and no.

i'm the father now,

he's the child.

heat or ice

is it ice first,

or heat,

or heat last,

and then

ice.

after all the bruises

i've had

in my life,

one would think

i'd have it down

by now.

the Archive-A9

another bus

comes along. they all look

the same.

inside and out.

a man at the wheel

in his uniform.

his old cap

pulled down.

in goes the coins

into the glass box

by the gears.

the green vinyl seats 

are hard, the windows

won't open.

the rumble of it,

the muffled roar,

the staggered stops

and starts,

jostling us along.

an empty cup

rolls around the floor.

somehow we get there.

delivering the post

the ink would smudge,

come off

in my hands

as i rolled the papers

into batons

worthy of tossing

to each and every porch

on my route.

the wagon squealed as

the dog tagged along,

not far behind.

he new the drill, both

of us in the twilight

of morning, racing

home.

selective memory

i can't remember

what i

had to eat

last Tuesday, but ask

me what you

said

five years ago,

and i'll tell you verbatim,

exactly

what you told me.

they are so alike

my mechanic

is just like my dentist,

who

says floss more,

he says you need new

shocks,

maybe you need

a new crown,

he says your transmission

fluid is shot,

your gums are receding

we can fix

that.

when was the last time

you changed your filters?

we have a mouth guard

to wear at

night to keep you

from grinding your teeth,

keep you

from snoring.

you need to change 

your tires, one side

is wearing out.

you need a water pic,

new wiper blades,

a battery

powered toothbrush.

we need to rotate your tires.

maybe an implant here

or there.

how about we rebuild

your carburetor?

cha ching.

her cheetah pants

she bites,

but she's harmless

in her

cheetah

pants

and sweater, very tight.

her

matching heels.

they are more

like nibbles

than they are bites.

she tells me

she's had her shots,

not to worry.

you have nothing

to fear.

and yet i do.

we turn him towards the sun

he's not

quite a potted plant yet.

though we water him

daily.

pecks on the cheek,

words

of lover and conversation.

clean

socks.

food and drink.

a new chair for the tub.

a cane.

a pillow for his back. 

batteries

for the smoke alarm,

the hearing aid,

the clock.

we turn him towards

the sun, when there

is sunlight to be had.

he's not quite

a potted plant and for that,

both him

and us, are glad.

we cut our own hair

sometimes

the elevator worked.

sometimes

we took the stairs

eighteen flights down

when the fire alarm

was pulled.

pranksters.

after a few years, we

stopped

leaving the apartment.

let it burn.

we had food delivered.

we did

online banking.

we cut our own hair,

patched our

own clothes.

we had the television,

the internet.

sun lamps.

we had windows to

look out.

we felt safe in there.

eight floors up,

the rest of the world

out of sight

and out of mind,

way way way

down there.

we need a breather

if all

the people who have guns

were

shot and wounded, not

killed, let's not

get crazy here,

just minor

wounds.

well,

maybe that would calm

things down for

a while,

as they recuperated

in the hospitals.

give us a breather

for a few

weeks when out and about.

i need one box of number two pencils, asap

i should care

more about the world, i suppose,

have a sleepless

night over

global warming,

over all the plastic in the ocean

choking

dolphins and turtles.

i should worry about

the decrease in the number

of bees.

of fish, etc.

i know i should separate

paper and plastic, cans

and bottles.

i should reduce my

carbon footprint as best i can,

and not order

pencils from amazon

that arrive the next day,

but i just can't.

i can change her mind

it's like a cold,

ice cold

glass of water thrown

into my face,

when she says to me,

my goal is to get

married again.

she doesn't know

about my blood oath

to never again

say the vows or

wear a wedding ring.

i quicky change 

the subject and pour

her another glass

of wine.

it's early in the evening.

maybe, just maybe

i can change her mind.

one cook in the kitchen

you need

one captain, one cook

in the kitchen.

one

person who picks

the colors,

picks the chandelier,

the silverware,

the linen

table cloth.

just one person needs

to steer the boat.

say charge

as we prepare to go

over the hill.

every house needs

a boss,

but not too bossy

of course.

self diagnosis

it could

be a cracked rib.

bruised

maybe.

a contusion of some

sort.

but i'm not a doctor

though 

i follow

web md.

if the breathing gets

any more

difficult, and i can

no longer bend

over to tie my shoes,

of course

i'll call you.

as always, you're

my first responder.

well spent youth

much of your youth

was spent

on chasing a ball,

throwing,

running,

finding any kind of job

to have money

in order to find a girl.

throw in a few books,

a few thousand

pages of writing

and so it goes.

little has

changed it seems,

even at this age,

in this year.

all of it well spent,

despite

the rumors you may

hear.

the tree out front

we go down

to see

the cherry blossoms

blossom.

pink white.

every year it's a big

whoop.

it's on the news.

the weather.

tourists are everywhere

with their

cameras.

it's cold and windy.

it's raining

as we walk along

the tidal basin

until frozen.

we drive home

and notice the tree

in the front yard.

that's nice too.

maybe nicer.

blasé

your increasing

lack

of interest

is interesting to say

the least.

how

strange to be blasé

about

what you once

were excited about.

how quickly

the shine

came off that apple.

the bus to Tuscany

my mother

when she came into money.

five dollars

here,

ten dollars there,

would hide it

in a book, or in a plant

pot.

sometimes she'd

bury a twenty

dollar bill

in the yard, marked

with a stone.

there was a change

jar

in her sewing room.

she was getting ready

to leave,

to escape the misery

she was in,

but she died before she

made her getaway,

Tuscany

remained a dream

he sounded so nice on the phone

i never should

have given

the man on the phone my

social security

number, my bank account

numbers

my date of birth

and my address.

not mention my

height and weight

and my mother's maiden

name.

but he was so nice

on the phone.

and he promised me

the world.

millions.

now he's living in

my house.

petting my dog. sleeping

in my bed.

yesterday i saw him

walking down

the street in my clothes,

holding my umbrella

over his head.

hello, it's me

it's me,

the voice says on the phone.

it's me.

which me,

i ask.

there's more than one

me out there.

you don't recognize

my voice?

say something, i tell

her.

yell at me.

accuse me of things

i've never done.

go on.

lie.

then i'll know who

you are for sure.

bring water

bring water.

it's a long trip from

here to there.

bring

water.

wear your good shoes.

there's no

shade

for a hundred miles.

bring water.

it may seem

like the end of the world,

but it isn't.

bring water.

be brave.

we'll get there.

we're the best

because

we can, because

we're American

we buy the big truck

with big wheels.

the big house.

we marry the woman

with the big

breasts.

enormous butts.

big lips.

we have big muscles

around

our little brains.

we have a big boat.

we order

the big steak,

we supersize our

drinks.

we're big shots.

with big egos.

we have big guns.

big ambitions.

we out do everyone.

the rest of the world

stinks.

we are a country

of whining children.

you can't say that anymore

careful

with words, we are now

no one

spouts off anymore,

loses

their cool

and says a bunch

of things

they'll have to apologize

for.

i miss those days,

when you

could rant

and rave, and not worry

about the woke

people who lie

in wait

to skewer you.

after the workout

i need more ice

bags.

three aren't quite

enough.

the knees,

the shoulder,

the head.

one more for

the back

and i'll be good.

or maybe

a tub of ice in

water.

drop myself in

and soak

until frozen.

tomorrow

the rain

keeps me home.

keeps

the coffee pot on.

keeps

me inside

to do

all the things i

put off until

tomorrow.

well,

tomorrow has come.

wild thing

she could sing.

dance,

play

the piano.

she was the life of the party,

telling jokes,

making everyone

laugh.

she was the party

in her red dress.

her hair

flying around her

shoulders.

red heels

and lipstick.

she set the mood.

she didn't need to drink

a drop of wine,

no liquor touched

her lips,

no need,

for she was always

inebriated 

on a natural sort of booze.

did you go alone?

i find an old

ticket

to the theater in my coat

pocket.

i haven't worn

the coat since the night

i went

to that show.

i guess it was cold out.

a scarf

is still around the collar,

gloves are

in the pockets.

did i go alone?

probably so.

and if she was with me,

even more so.

the hand that feeds him now

he hated

black people, Asians too.

anyone not

American born

got on his nerves,

Mexicans

were the worst

according to his beliefs

set in stone.

actually anyone not

exactly

like him.

the same color of skin

were way down

on his proverbial

food chain.

and so now,

as he lies there

in a state

of confusion, unable

to lift a fork

to his mouth, with dementia

set in,

i wonder if his

views have changed

as a brown

hand feeds

him, changes his diaper

and wipes his mouth,

counts out the pills

of his medicine.

was there love there?

they empty

the old house.

there goes the coffee table,

the books

and lamps,

the blue couch.

someone has rolled

up the rug

and set it in the yard.

pictures

are taken down. leaves

traces

of dust and faded paint

behind.

pots and pans,

dishes.

everything old,

rusted, worn, bent.

the people are gone.

wheeled out

in chairs

or gurneys, taken somewhere

where strangers

now will feed them

with small spoons

and straws.

the people are gone.

was there love there?

not that i remember.

the mail must go through

i've lowered my

expectations

with the mailman.

his leather

sack thrown

over his bent shoulder.

his grey

uniform, loose

and frayed.

he's wearing his pith

helmet in the rain,

but

there's no mail i'm

anxious to receive.

no check, no prize

money, no love

letter from overseas.

it's bills and ads.

junk that i won't even

take the time to read.

the funeral director

it's good to have

a barber,

someone that knows

your hair,

or lack thereof.

it's good to have a doctor,

a dentist,

a lawyer.

even a butcher comes

in handy

when you need a special

cut of meat.

then there's 

the plumber,

the painter,

the electrician.

but of course there

are a few

people you hope

to never want, or need.

another cup of tea

another cup

of tea seemed to solve

nearly

everything,

for Emily.

a plate of cookies,

the good China

taken out

for the visit.

what troubles?

she'd say.

cream and sugar.

how long

can you stay?

live and let live

we think

we're better

people than that,

non-judgmental,

live and let

live sorts,

but

we aren't.

we can't help but

stare

and wonder

at

the purple

hair,

the fish hook through

the nose,

the tattoo

of Satan on someone's

brow.

we cautiously move

to the other

side of the street

and wonder

if another great flood

is overdue.

the grave yards are full

i haven't heard

from my Russian friend, Dasha,

in a while.

i worry about her.

the last picture

she sent to me was of her

ice fishing.

sitting over a hole

in the ice, smoking a cigarette

with a look of

disgust on her face.

i ask her about the war,

but she says

she can't talk about it.

she only says that all the men

are gone

and that the grave yards are full.

after seven days of rain

i have fond

memories of the sun.

remember

the sun?

that giant yellowish

globe

in the sky, making

our skin warm?

it was lovely.

a wonderful thing.

us in our bathing suits,

the dog sleeping

in a puddle

of golden sunlight.

the daffodils in bloom,

robins singing.

remember the sun?

beach pancakes

some people

when they get back from

a vacation,

from a cruise,

or a week in Spain

are perky

and excited.

they're refreshed from

the week away.

if i go to the beach

for a night

i'm exhausted from

all that packing

and travel.

frazzled by the commotion

in the hotel lobby.

confused by which

pancake joint

to eat at.

The Pocahontas?

or Captain Ahab's?

going to california

we were on our way

to California.

Hunnington Beach

to be exact.

some girl named Sharon

a cousin

of the girl i was dating,

Vivian,

captain of the cheerleaders

invited us over

when she was in town.

she was going to show us

around.

give us the tour.

we made it as far west

as Winchester, Virginia,

then Jim Ac's fifty-nine

chevy broke down.

he couldn't get it started

again, and we had

no money between us

to fix whatever was wrong.

so we left it there on the

side of the road,

route sixty-six and 

hitched a ride home.

it's just the wind

it's just a soft

rattle,

a squeak, a slight

bang.

is that the door knob

twisting,

is it a ghost

perhaps?

is someone trying

to get in.

are there mice

in the attic,

is there a bat

behind shutters.

what's making this 

noise.

i pray that it's just

wind

and not her again.

why sleep on it?

before we end things,

she says,

let's sleep on it.

i know you're miserable

with me being here.

but let's get a good nights

rest

and talk about it tomorrow.

i tell her, that's the problem

i can't sleep

when you're here.

so maybe i should go,

she says.

i can pack and leave

right now if you want

me too.

sure. that's a great idea.

turn the light off

and lock the door, when

you go down.

everyone needs a hug

it's a left

wing

conversation. 

more social workers

less cops.

more money for

the poor,

more tax breaks,

more shelters

for the homeless.

more hand outs,

more free

stuff for all.

loosen the borders,

let everyone in.

let girls

be boys

and boys become girls.

and unborn

babies, pfffft,

who needs them?

let's clear the jails,

no one is guilty,

everyone just needs

a hug,

even a five time

offender,

a felonious thug.

wal-mart shopping

the oils,

the sugars,

the bread

and cakes, the pies,

the French fries

and icing.

the standard American

diet. there are

twelve teaspoons of raw

sugar in each

bottle of coke.

just look at the line.

the shadows

of each

enormous behind.

i see

a five gallon

bag

of marshmallow

peanuts, 

next to a gallon

jug of syrup.

oh my.

burning books

do children

read

what we were asked

to read.

is Mark Twain

on the list,

Salinger,

and

Cheever,

Updike

and Flannery O'Connor.

or are they

all banned

from the woke

witches

and wizards that now

run

the show?

is Phillip Ross

no where to be found,

Saul Bellow

and Fitzgerald

long gone.

Bukowski?

is their writing not woke

enough,

not

current with our times?

pain with memory

a bruise, a scrap,

a bump

a cut,

a strain, all in a few

days would

be gone

at an early age.

but now,

i roll out of bed

and grab my

knee

and limp in

the early morning

darkness,

holding onto walls

as i go find

a salve

to ease the ancient

pain.

my good friend Mr. Lincoln

it's crowded.

packed.

the bar

is overflowing,

every seat is taken, 

every table is full.

i sidle up

to the Maitre d

and ask

him if he's met my

good friend

Mr. Lincoln. with

stealthy deftness

i show him

my five dollar bill,

folded in the palm

of my hand.

this is all yours,

i tell him,

if he sets a table

free. he laughs

that Maitre d laugh.

no dice.

he points to the door

and asks us

to leave.

we'll have more tomorrow

we have nearly

uncontrollable urges.

it's human.

natural.

our appetite for sweets,

or salt,

for drink and food,

for affection.

no matter how much

we get,

it's never quite enough.

tomorrow

we crave more.

Etienne's day at the park

i'm having a Francophile

kind of day.

after penciling in

a thin black mustache,

i've put on

my black beret,

my black and white

striped jersey,

a guitar is

strapped to my back

and

i'm eating a baguette,

with escargot

and ghee.

i'm listening

to Jacques Brel

on my little red

transistor radio.

i've borrowed a small

poodle

from my friend Mitzi,

and i'm

down by the river

doing an impressionistic

rendering in oil

of people strolling by.

occasionally

i take a sip of pinot noir

from the bottle

by my side,

and say bonjour

with a smile

to lovers walking by.

sliding down an icy hill with wooden boards attached to your feet

i try to watch

the trial of the minor celebrity

actress

who crashed into

some old man

on a ski slope.

it's like watching paint

dry,

or grass grow.

it's all about who's going

to get a pay day.

who gets the dough.

if you're stupid enough to put

slippery boards

on your feet

and fly down

a hill in the ice and snow,

you're officially a dope.

and you're on

your own.

you get nothing.

be thankful you didn't hit

a tree like most

skiers do.

i thought it was Thursday

sometimes

i cringe at

the confusion of not knowing

what day it is.

Tuesday

being Wednesday,

Friday being

Thursday.

Monday

being Sunday.

it's a fascinating state

of mind.

a little touch

of insanity while

scratching my head

and wondering

if it's all over now.

call the doctor, the

priest, the lawyer

and put

me to bed.

three step verification code

my mother has

a three

step verification code

on her phone now.

whenever i call her

she wants

me to tell her

my favorite pasta dish,

the color of her 

parakeet, and the derogatory

name

she used to call

my third and final ex-wife,

if all my answers,

are correct,

lasagna, lime green and

Cruella, she'll

finally believe it's me

on the line.

it's exhausting, but after

she gave away

two thousand dollars

last year to some

Jamaican chap

pretending to be me,

she's taking no

chances.

the fortune cookie

it was easy

to eat

and eat, get drunk on

mai tais

at Hunan West.

keep

the rice coming,

the beef,

the shrimp

and peppers.

we've got all night

here

in this red and yellow

place.

more fish,

more

sauces, more duck.

more fortune cookies.

this one

i just read

doesn't appeal

to me.

do you swear to tell the truth?

i used to keep

a Bible

by the front door

and made

her place her hand

on it

when i questioned her

about

where she was

that night.

for the most part she'd

plead the fifth

which would end

the interrogation.

then the lie detector test,

which i got as a wedding gift.

of course

she'd pass that with flying

colors. no surprise there.

narcissists

and psychopaths

are the best at that.

the graph showed

not a single blip.

the artist's wife

we want

to know more about

the artist.

why

he painted what he did.

the influence

of his brush

his colors,

the lines he'd draw.

we want

to understand what

made him

tick.

why

the starkness

of olives

and greys, the lines

so thick.

spoon fed

we are spoon

fed

when babies.

the long 

stretch

of middle years are

up to us

though

with fork and knife,

and then at the end

it's back

once more

to the spoon,

a circled

life.

clearing out the attic

it's a good day to clean

up the attic.

i get the flashlight

and climb the wobbly

wooden ladder.

i grab the box of

psychology books,

a thick copy

of the DSM,

and self help manuals,

and carry them down.

next i get the old straight

jackets that i used to

use in a previous

relationship, and toss

them into the hall.

there's an exorcism

kit too.

holy water, crosses.

straps to tie the possessed

down with.

garlands of dried up

garlic.

a wooden stake and mallet.

everything is covered

in cobwebs and dust.

spiders are everywhere.

it's a good day for a

cleaning.

check is in the mail

i don't do online

banking.

i have a check book.

i send checks out in the mail.

envelope,

stamp, etc.

no automatic payments.

no Zelle,

or Venmo,

or PayPal,

no bit coin,

whatever the hell

that is.

i don't scan payments

onto my phone.

and i'm not

giving up my butter

churn either.

what should we do today?

she says to me,

one morning. hey, i have an idea.

i lower

the paper

to look at her,

and say, what?

let's go pick

blueberries up

in Pennsylvania.

what do you think?

it's so nice out.

i keep looking at her,

my eyes just barely

over the edge of

the newspaper.

Safeway has blueberries,

i tell her.

i know, i know. but

it'll be nice to get away

and fresh fruit

is always a treat this

time of year.

she puts her finger to her chin,

what about a hot air balloon

ride, she says.

Powerlines, i reply.

death by fire and falling

and then

what's left of you

the animals will eat.

take a walk up to Starbucks?

sure.

let me get my shoes

on.

used cars and women

she had

that new car smell.

that glossy finish

of heated wax,

the shine

of the chamois cloth.

the tank

full,

the windows clean.

there was a nice

sweet rumble of the engine

when revved,

but underneath

there was rust,

and corrosion,

the oil was leaking.

the short fuse

you

have moments

of being unkind.

the worst

of you

appears when abused

or dismissed,

or used.

sometimes the slightest

hint of

disrespect

lights the short fuse.

look at me now

nobody

wants to work anymore.

they're done

with labor

with nine to five.

with sweeping floors

and punching the clock.

no flipping

burgers for me.

i'm a tik tok star.

watch and like

as i lip-sync a song,

as i play my guitar,

stand on my

head and put my legs

around my neck.

i'm at the beach,

at a bar, the zoo,

making faces at the

animals.

i'm making my dog

play peek a boo.

click on me now,

more content

like this tomorrow.

i don't have a real job,

so i have all day

to fool around.

the camping meet up group

Colette asks me to go

camping with

her meet up group.

it's a fun bunch of seniors

she says.

all divorced and single,

some widows

and widowers.

we go up into the mountains

and set up camp.

what about the snakes,

i ask her.

and the black bears.

mosquitoes?

do you have an axe,

a gun,

pepper spray for vandals

that wander into

camp and hit us with sticks

while we lie

in our sleeping bags?

no, she says.

it's quite safe.

we build a fire and roast

marshmallows, sometimes

we cook

hot dogs and beans.

we tell ghost stories

around the fire as we drink

wine and beer.

what about canoodling, i ask

her, does that happen.

okay, she says, you're 

officially univited.

the price of fine dining

as i

eat some goat cheese

dip

with wafers of flat bread

broken

and stale,

i check my wallet

and see that i only

have two one hundred

dollar bills.

she's having

a salad

and a glass of wine.

i'm sticking to water,

tap water.

there's the tip to deal

with, of course,

but 

this is what it's come to

in

fine dining.

the luck of the draw

the guy

across the courtyard,

let's call him Jim.

has a great wife.

she cooks dinner

everyday for him and the children,

at six she calls

them all in

she does the wash,

and the cleaning,

takes the kids where

they need to go.

to doctors and

teachers meetings, soccer

games on Saturdays.

decorates

the tree.

plans the family

vacations.

she buys all them

their clothes. she's old

school.

paleolithic

in her motherly ways.

he's lucky to have her

my soon to be ex-wife

says. sleeping in until noon.

unsure how

to turn on the stove

or washer,

lucky

indeed, i repeat, lucky

to not be me.

the misfit among us

we may

all be touched, a  tad

crazy,

off our trolley

a bit.

but we do our

best

to fit in,

and not be the outlier,

the misfit.

where does it all go

where does it all

go?

all this trash, this garbage

we dispose of,

the daily

pick up

in the morning, and

then it's gone.

but where to?

the glass and tin,

the plastic, the paper,

the egg shells

and fish we didn't eat.

who has the room

for all our things

we no longer want

or need?

tomorrow we'll

make more,

and the next day

and the next day.

it's all very strange

how it disappears,

out of sight and mind,

but i'm pleased.

the comfort zone

it's hard

to go back, to retreat

to a life

once had.

once you taste the good

life,

the good wine,

the good food,

and sleep 

safely

on a soft bed,

it's hard to go back.

once you have the kiss

of a true

love, there is no

other path.

it's just a job for now

the man

and his helper, laying

fresh concrete

for a sidewalk

are there all day.

the man speaks, the kid,

listens, brushes

the hair out

of his eyes as he goes

to get whatever

tool

the mason needs

from the open truck.

he's giving lessons

to the boy.

giving him his trade

as best he can.

but at his age, he's

bent over,

he's slow to rise, slow

to straighten.

you can see it in the kid's

eyes,

that this life isn't

for him.

what's he doing?

the animal

crossing the road, seems

to have a death

wish.

i can't make him out

in the headlights,

but his eyes

are shiny.

he could be a possum,

a porcupine,

a sloth

of some sort trying

to get to the other side.

but he waits,

he hesitates and rises

on his squat legs.

his little furry arms

are open

as if welcoming me.

he's done

with this life, it's almost

like he's asking

me to speed up

and end things.

i think there must be trouble

at home, tired from

all that foraging

in trash cans, dealing

with ungrateful

kids, his promiscuous

wife.

ergo

if you hear

the word, ergo,

in a sentence, you know

it's going to be

a long night,

an excruciating long

dinner party,

especially if he's

wearing a bow

tie

and has a beard and

clinks his spoon

to his glass

to make sure he's

being heard.

wood for the fire

there is pleasure

in breaking

wood apart

into cords for the fire.

i take hard

swing after swing

of the axe

down upon the wood.

then stack it

on the side of the house.

it's a good sweat,

distracted by

no one, by nothing.

it's just me

and the wood,

under the cold blue sky,

bang goes the axe,

splitting, again and again.

bang,

then bang again.

for hours until one piece

is the last.

a good pair of walking shoes

can some of it stay a mystery.

do we have

to know everything that there

is to know about

everything?

can't there be a little shadow

in the light.

why bother so much

with the whens, the whys,

the whats?

does it matter

what size the universe is?

how it all got started?

i'm more concerned with lunch

these days,

and a good pair of walking

shoes.

defining Pluto

nearly every single thing

they taught

us in school has changed,

except for math.

the rest is up for grabs,

being altered and rewritten

daily.

history, biology, nutrition,

science.

even English has a new

set of rules,

new words being made

up just because.

Pluto is no longer a planet,

for instance,

how can we live with that?

going on spring break

i have my own

spring

break.

i put on my red bathing suit

and my old

college sweatshirt

that reads

Lorton Reformatory.

i get out the sun lamp

and shine

it on the ceiling.

i fix a drink

and open up a bag of chips.

i put some music on

and dance around

the  living room,

yelling at the tv, making

cat calls when

a woman is on the screen.

i yell out, saying

things like, hey baby,

where do you go to school?

it's a fun time,

until the neighbor calls

the police.

the other's life

the indoor cat

stares out

at the outdoor cat.

the one

roaming free with a dead

mouse

between his teeth.

they stop for

a moment

and make eye contact.

each wishing

he had the other's

life.

nine feet down

the ground

was so hard our shovels

broke

in trying

to dig along the side

of the house.

the four of us took

turns.

with a pickaxe,

or shovel,,

one after the other

each taking a swing at it,

pulling dirt out.

it was a days work.

it was cold, but we

were young

and anxious for a paycheck.

and when

it snowed,

or rained, we kept

at it.

blisters under our

gloved hands, our faces

red,

our ear frozen.

but strangely we were

bonded,

comrades in arms,

somehow

making it fun.

as if none of it happened

when you come out of it,

and by it,

i mean trouble,

a hell on earth, and when

you have time

to sort it all out,

to get yourself right again,

it's almost as if none

of it happened.

it wasn't you. it was

someone else.

all the wounds have

healed, and even the scars

have faded.

lean in together

it's good to have

a friend

to lean into when the wind

almost

carries you away.

you take his

arm, he takes yours.

you walk

together.

it's good to have

a friend like that.

an old friend that will

see through

the good times,

walk you to the grave.

he just wants to talk

he just wants

to talk,

this old guy.

this old man shuffling,

an iceberg

moving

across the room.

he sits,

i sit.

we talk, well, he talks

and i nod,

i listen.

he's lonely. he has

his wife,

but he's still lonely.

he wants to talk

about things he can't

talk with

his wife about.

i get it. i give him an

hour. he tells me about

the work he used to do,

the army,

Rhode Island,

his children.

it's a long hour,

then i look

at my watch and tell

him, i have to go.

he shows me to the door,

i wait for him

as he moves along,

one step

after the other.

he has more to say, more

to tell me.

but he understands.

i have to go.

dinner with a view

after work,

with my boots still on,

hands

unwashed, the dirt

of the day

on me,

i stand in the cold light

of the ice

box, staring

at what might become

dinner.

not much there,

eggs

and lettuce.

nothing to write home

about. i pull

a jar of grape jelly out,

then peanut butter from

the cupboard.

i find

two slices

of bread, both end pieces,

the broad knife

from the drawer.

this will do.

i've had more,

i've had less..

and this view out the kitchen

window,

past the sink

and dirty dishes stacked,

is the best.

grape nehi

it's a vacant lot now

full of broken 

glass and gravel,

but it used

to be a store where an

old man

sold candy, and pop.

we'd reach

into his ice box

on the floor and pull

out a nehi soda

from the cold water

and crushed ice.

orange or grape.

which stained our lips

the entire day.

then we ran back out

into the street,

ball and glove in hand.

there was still sunlight,

there was still more time

to play.

shades of blue

i prefer

various shades of blue.

soft or dark,

indigo.

let them lean towards

the sky,

towards

the stream, 

the moon.

i prefer blue.

blue in all shades.

it fits the mood.

cooking dinner together

we slow

dance around the kitchen.

we've been

drinking

as we cook dinner

together.

we bump into the stove,

a pot

falls off the burner.

she tumbles

into the table,

over the salad goes,

a fork falls

into my foot, severing

a toe.

her apron catches fire,

while i try to

kiss her lips,

missing, bumping

our teeth together,

giving her a bloody nose.

the smoke alarm

goes off.

something in the oven

is burning.

we call out for pizza.

turning everything off,

including the lights,

the couch

is our landing.

one last dime

i dropped a dime

into the slot

to make a call, a long

distant call.

i had my quarters stacked

up on the small

metal

shelf in the phone booth.

it was raining.

it was late,

there was a three hour

difference in time.

it didn't matter, i had

to talk to her.

i had to know if she was

still mine.

someone in the dorm

picked up, not her.

she wasn't there, she was

out, i told the girl

to leave a message,

tell her that i called,

tell her, i miss her, tell

her....never mind.

never mind. i hung up.

the high school reunion

i go to the fifty year

high school

reunion.

it's at Cracker Barrel this time.

there's wheel chair

access

and a nurse on duty

with a defibrillator.

plenty of handicap

parking.

Cindy, the head of the cheerleaders

is in her uniform,

it still fits, she says

cheerfully as she shakes

our hands and pins

our names to our shirts

and blouses.

there's ten of us, out of a

class of five hundred and ninety-two.

we have a table

in the back.

we order food.

mostly breakfast and coffee.

desserts.

then the talk begins as to

who died and how.

Gretchen says, remember

the time Mindy Liefer

drove

the driver's ed car into

the post holding up the library?

we all laugh.

that story never gets old.

one more cup of coffee

i should

cut back on coffee

my one

vice.

dark roast with

heavy cream and two

stevias.

the chemical infused

leaf

is probably killing

me.

setting my brain

on fire.

but coffee, how do

i quit you,

my only vice, except

for Betty.

you should meet her.

she's the epitome

of nice.

imaginary lovers

i bought you a gift

for your

birthday.

it's shiny. i know how

you like shiny.

expensive too.

i spent hours at the mall

at the jewelers

looking

under the glass counter,

searching for

something that would

please you.

i'll keep the receipt

though, just in case it's

not to your liking.

maybe i'll have it engraved

with the date

and our initials.

one day,

i hope to meet you.

what's wrong with you?

being

a cowboy was never an option,

despite

spending endless hours

as a kid

wearing my

hop along Cassidy

outfit

and riding my plastic horse

on springs.

i had a belt with

two cap pistols

and rolls of red caps

tucked

inside my

pleated black shirt.

i was always under attack

by indians

or outlaws,

dodging bullets

and arrows,

doing all the voices

with the door shut

and the lights off.

i remember my sister

poking her head

in to see what all the commotion

was about,

and asking me,

what's wrong with you?

seedless grapes on sale, true story

if you spend

over twenty-five dollars,

the woman

from Sri Lanka

says to me as she rings

up my groceries,

your red seedless grapes

will be ninety-nine cents

per pound.,

not three dollars and

ninety-nine cents

per pound.

you're only up to

twenty-three dollars

and seventy-eight cents.

she shows me the coupon

in the newspaper,

she's circled it with

the pen she keeps behind

her ear.

she explains it to me a few

times more,

the language barrier is not

helping.

the line behind me grows

longer.

there's grumbling,

cursing under their

breath. babies are crying.

i see a small grey haired

woman

taking out a pair of scissors

from her purse.

you need to buy something

for two dollars,

maybe a candy bar, the clerk says,

pointing at the rack

of dozens of candy bars.

hmmm. i say. looking

around. nah, i'm doing this

whole carnivore thing now.

i can't eat sugar.

hold on. let me go get

a can of tuna. is that on

sale too, how much is

one can?

light tuna in water, can you

get the store manager to look

that up?

new age stalking

she shakes her head

sadly,

while staring

into her phone.

stalking

isn't what it used to be,

she says.

hiding in

the bushes outside an old

boyfriend's house

in a hat

and rain coat,

to see what he's up to.

doing the drive by,

the slow follow

as he leaves for work,

or a date

on Saturday night.

who has time for stalking

anymore,

she says,

and besides, there's always

Facebook

and LinkedIn, Myspace,

his blog,

and the rest of it

to satisfy my

sick need to know.

new kitchen envy

the neighbor,

a few doors up from me.

is having

work done.

she invites me in to see

the new floor,

the cabinets,

the granite counter

just cut

and installed.

is that a Viking stove,

a sub Zero fridge?

oh my,

and a microwave

over the stove.

i tamp down my envy,

as she opens up

the oven door.

it's a prime rib roast,

garlic wrapped,

with small potatoes,

the table set for four.

it's almost dinner time

and i'm not invited.

i hate her.

don't wait for me

it's an incline,

though slight,

these curbs, these steps,

that grassy hill.

where once you ran

in leaps and bounds,

now carefully

you take your time.

grabbing the rail,

and yelling ahead, 

don't wait for me,

go on.

so close to an end

as the world

spins

out of control and confusion

of the simplest

things set

in,

such as the question

of, am i a boy

or am i a girl,

you wonder what's

gone wrong.

you think of what

Dostoevsky said,

that without God,

everything

is permissible.

so close we are to an end.

the train window

the train

doesn't go through the nice parts

of towns.

where the parks

are,

where the lake is,

where the architecture

is pleasing

to the eye, where

the streets are clean.

where everything

is organized

no,

the train goes elsewhere,

it rolls

on the edges,

where the factories

smoke,

where the rusted cars

lie abandoned,

where the shacks lean

in the wind.

where the yards are dirt,

and the dogs

bark all night.

egg salad sandwich

there was a kid

in the seventh grade who

had a full

beard

at the age of fourteen.

he looked like

a pirate.

other kids mistook him

for one of

the faculty.

he was tall and gangly

and spoke

a mysterious

foreign language.

i remember he

packed the best lunches.

goat cheese

and meat wraps

in pita bread. pickles

home made sweets.

sometimes i'd trade

him my egg salad 

sandwich for whatever

he had.

he brought his own

salt and pepper

shakers in his back pack.

he'd open up

my sandwich and sprinkle

it with pepper,

then smile with his enormous

teeth.

good, he'd say. good.

the next year he was gone.

my neighbor, Becky

this one neighbor,

let's call her Becky,

who lives

two doors down, has

been on my case

for nearly twenty years.

she's been every member

of the board

at one time or another.

she goes nowhere without

her clipboard.

if i put the trash out

too early, there's a note

on my door,

if my dog barks, another

note. if i paint

my door an unapproved

color, she's quick to

report me.

when the stickers

on my car are about

to expire, she puts a

warning on the windshield.

if my kitchen window

is open and the music

is too loud, she knocks

on my door and tells

me to lower it.

and then i get an invitation

in the mail, she's having

a welcome to the neighborhood

party, which includes

the selling of Tupperware.

she's twenty years late.

Becky.

what's on your mind?

i can tell

she's thinking about something.

the way

she fiddles with her

fork,

moving food around

on her plate,

tapping

the spoon against her

cup.

she keeps looking

down at

the fish gone cold.

the curl

of her salad

now dry.

i'm almost finished

chewing

the last bite of bread,

swallowing the last pour

of wine.

what, i ask her.

what?

my best friend in school

the kid

beside me for ten grades

of school,

my best friend,

would borrow my 

homework,

sit next to me

for the answers

at test time.

he'd tap his finger,

once for yes,

twice for no.

he was too lazy

to study, and he knew

he had me around.

i taught him well.

he's a doctor now.

highly esteemed

with his name 

inscribed

on a very clean 

white coat..

fires with names

i know what fire is.

of course i do.

a child knows that.

knows

how it hurts, how it burns

and scars.

how long it takes

to heal, and yet, i can't

help testing it

again and again,

putting my hand over

the flames, just close 

enough to feel

the danger of it all

once more.

some fires have names.

Grande Americano

in his bow tie

and white

shirt, his red suspenders,

he laughed

at me

when i asked for coffee

to go.

he stroked his thin

mustache

and shook his head

sadly.

he was Italian,

the crowd around him

standing

with porcelain cups

drinking espresso

were Italian too.

citizens of Venice.

they laughed with him.

everyone was laughing.

these Americans, how

crass, how rude

in them wanting coffee

to go.

what fools.

chocolate rabbits

i'm not exactly sure

how

chocolate

rabbits and yellow peeps

got mixed up

in Easter,

resurrection Sunday.

what a strange strange

path that must be.

jelly beans

and baskets, with

colored eggs and straw.

who's behind

all this.

what dots can i connect.

it's not about you

this song

isn't about you.

in fact, none of them are.

so quit

thinking that i'm thinking

of you

when i strum this guitar,

dwelling on the past,

about what went right,

what went wrong.

this song isn't about you,

it's about me.

about me moving on.

so don't

even ask.

the two lane highway

you drive

out of town, west

on 66, you need to go.

you need

a change of scenery.

a change

of venue.

tired of the same old.

the old faces,

the voices.

the same stores lit up.

the same roads.

the familiar

has grown

stale, grown old.

you're tired of what's on

tv,

what's in your phone.

you drive and drive

until nothing looks

like it did

back home.

you need the big sky,

the desert,

the ocean of sand.

you need the nothingness

of it all

with no one in your ears,

no one in your

eyes.

you drive.

i'm so sorry, really

it's good to apologize

early

and often

when in a relationship.

stand in front

of the mirror before you

go out on that first

date

and say, i'm sorry.

you don't need a reason

right now.

just say it, practice it.

just keep repeating i'm

sorry, i'm sorry.

don't worry, this is not

a waste of time.

it'll come in handy 

as the relationship

progresses.

we'll cover

jewelry and flowers

in the next class.

an early morning nap

i wake up

at six.

somewhat aroused, wishing

Betty

was around.

then i fall

back to sleep, a strange nap

in the middle

of waking

up.

it's ten a.m. already.

the dream

is over.

i hear someone outside

chopping wood.

i wonder

who chops wood anymore,

and why.

eat this then take this pill

not one

for conspiracies, and yet.

it seems

like doctors

are in on it.

the obesity, the pills,

the statins,

diabetes running wild.

the medical industry seems

to be in cahoots

with General Mills,

and Domino sugar,

little Debbie cakes and

Haagen Daz.

the sicker and fatter

we get

the more pills they

sell.

you see children at the bus

stop,

little sacks of sugar

with chubby cheeks,

and arms like flippers.

the world has grown fat

with bread

and sugar.

sodas and cereals,

chips and crackers.

snacks and

nutrient less crap.

and no one seems care,

as the addiction

goes on and money is made

as prescriptions

are filled.

the pills are

everywhere.

faith builders

when you swerve

out of the way of a random

speeding

car trying to get into

your lane.

your heart beats like a rabbit

on the run

chased by hounds.

you thank God, 

your faith is strengthened

as you once again

escape,

unscathed,

another close one.

she makes friends easily

she goes to Florida,

i stay put.

her toes are in the sand.

she sends me a picture

saying wish you were here.

she's in a chair

with a cold tall drink

with an umbrella,

the ocean at her feet.

next to her in the other

chair is a stranger,

a Cuban man with

a gold watch.

she makes friends

easily when she's in

her red bikini.

the reluctant bone

i have a reluctant

bone

in my body,

it's grown stronger

over time.

a bone

that cringes when

it's something i don't want

to do,

or  go to.

it keeps me in my seat,

makes my head

swivel

into no mode.

thanks but no thanks

are the words

it makes me

speak.

a fresh coat of paint

you can tell

where people are in their

life

by the color of their

rooms.

the paint on the wall,

the pictures

the art,

the brightness,

orfit all, or gloom.

are they still young at heart,

still hopeful,

willing to change

and see what tomorrow

brings, or are they done.

sticking with greys

and beige,

pulling down

the shades, making

it all

a familiar tomb.

when will i get my Tupperware back?

finally i get the call that

i've been dreading.

it's Emily.

before she says a word

i can tell it's her.

something about her breathing

when she's angry,

or disappointed.

hello, i say,

cautiously.

so when am i going to get

all of my

Tupper ware back, she says.

we've been broken

up for three months

now and you promised

you'd drop it off on my porch,

weeks ago.

is this weekend okay?

yes. did you wash them all out.

of course, of course.

no worries. i'll get them all

back to you this weekend.

and don't forget the glass

containers too, with the lids,

and my

travel coffee mug.

the one with the big heart

on the front

that you gave me for

valentine's day.

got it. is that all?

well there might be something

under your bed,

with a long extension cord,

could you bring that too.

the cat and mouse

the secret to life

in all

situations, in work or play,

in love,

or relationships, is to

determine who's

the cat

and who's mouse.

once that's settled

the rest will fall

into place.

Debbie's all purpose gravy recipe

i find out who Debbie is.

the woman

who texted me

at three forty-seven in the morning,

just to say,

hi.

i met her fifteen years ago

in a cooking class.

we were learning

how to make a pot roast

for a party

larger than five.

she's living in Kentucky now.

i write back and say hello,

then ask

her for an all purpose

gravy recipe.

i get no reply.

April

not quite, 

but close enough.

i open

a window.

it's not a breath

of spring, but more of a cold

exhale

of March wind.

April though, she's coming,

she's around

the bend in her yellow dress, 

skipping with bows

and ribbons

across the field.

teach your children well

it's hard

to imagine why my brothers

and sisters

stopped talking to me.

all but one.

the other five

are in the wind.

i completely understand

ex-wives, but

with siblings,

God knows what i've

said or done.

my father taught them well,

the toxic

behavior of

the silent treatment.

and who communicates 

with him,

just me

and one sister, 

we're the only ones.

finish what's on your plate

i give it a shot,

i save

what's left of a meal,

wrapping it neatly,

or i bring it

home in a Styrofoam

box

what's left

on the plate,

but then,

it sits there in 

the ice box

on a cold rack,

day after day.

pushed further and further

back by

lemons, or cream,

a carton

of eggs.

i don't even take a peek.

i can't bare

to look at it again,

no matter how

delicious it

was yesterday, or

the day before.

i try not to listen

to the voice in

my ear, my mother telling me

once more about

the starving kids

in India.

should have written it down

i take notes.

unwritten, just mental notes

of things to do,

observations.

notes

that i'll forget

in about three minutes

when i get

distracted

by a bird flying by,

or a girl

in her summer dress,

or just the moon

having a nice

silver shine.

i can't save you

i can't save you.

oh Lord,

how i've tried.

but

your fate is to

drown.

i can't go down

with you.

i'm swimming to shore.

good luck

with the self-inflicted

troubles

you've decided to

hold onto.

and now for sports

there's always

a country

on the news that's war torn.

the houses

turned to rubble.

half-naked

children in the street.

smoke

from a fire nearby

blowing in the wind.

a helicopter in the sky.

the reporter

with a helmet on

standing in the middle

of it all.

Ukraine,

Iraq, Iran.

Viet Nam,

Selma Alabama,

Detroit.

it's all the same.

it never ends. but

back to you Jim,

and now for the sports.

scrubbing madly

i take a bar

of lava

soap, the kind the mechanics

use on oil rigs

and scrub my brain.

my hair.

my hands,

my heart. my feet,

my legs.

i use the hottest water

i can find

to rinse off,

wash the memories

down the drain.

for one single hour,

at last

i'm free, i'm clean.

last cake on the rack

it's a store

bought cake. very pretty.

the way

the icing

is so neat.

geometrically sound.

the words spelled

out

on top.

the platter that holds

it firm.

a perfect rectangle

of a cake.

sorry they misspelled

your name.

but it's the thought

that counts.

white lies

everyone lies

a little.

the kid

with his hand in the cookie

jar,

the husband working

late.

the wife

with an old

school mate.

no you don't look fat

in those pants.

you're so funny.

how nice to 

see you.

hope you're doing

great.

the politician

with the tax relief,

the priest

with the chalice

held high.

everyone lies

a little.

hero worship

they tell

us who our heroes should be.

mr woods,

mr armstrong

what divas

to worship

oprah

and madonna.

what movie star

to set upon

our mantle,

what president

or soldier

we need to bow down

to.

what glossy

flawed human

we should worship.

dr. phil

the osteens

the swaggerts

kings and queens.

just people.

all flawed and troubled.

all of them unworthy,

not unlike you

or me.

lost and found

she takes my hand

as we walk.

it surprises me, but

makes me

happy.

she's taking the initiative

with this, with

this thing we have.

i like that feeling,

that feeling

of not being lost.

money found

it thrills

me for no reason to find

a five

dollar

bill in the dryer.

fallen

from some pant pocket,

while twisting

and turning

in the wash,

then tumbled

dry.

it's a pleasant surprise

having money

found,

tomorrow i'm hoping

for more.

lucky at love

all night

we played poker.

drinking was involved.

her blouse came off,

my shirt stayed

on.

her dress,

her shoes,

her stockings.

she was almost down to

bare bones.

when she finally lost

it all, folding

with four aces

turned down.

i think she lost on

purpose.

the irish in you

we

waited outside

the Bottom Line

on I street

for St. Patty's day.

our green ties on.

waited in the cold,

in the long line.

would they

run out of drink before

we got in?

bangers and mash?

Shepard's pie.

we weren't Irish,

but who cared?

it was all about

the beauties inside

with flashing green eyes

and flaxen hair.