mystery fish

i knew

what we were having

for dinner

that night, when i saw

the box of frozen

fish sticks in the sink.

enough ketchup

on them,

will take

care of almost anything.

love like no other

they were glued

together

by psychological disorders.

one couldn't

leave

the other.

it was a sticky mess

of object

consonance,

fears of abandonment,

drowning

in the dysfunction

of their own

distress.

narcissists and borderlines

together,

a poisonous

mix,

but the therapists

loved them

as they cashed the checks.

here today

there

is little mourning

for much

of what lives.

things

come and go at a rapid

pace.

morning, noon,

and night,

the show goes on.

birth and death,

hand in hand.

there's so little time

to grieve,

to cry.

the bank robbery note

after

the bank was almost robbed,

the criminals

caught

in a shoot out,

they find the note

on the floor, asking for

all the money

in small bills.

empty the safe it says,

put it all in this bag,

or else.

but on the back of the note,

is a grocery list.

bread, eggs,

milk.

ice cream and potato chips.

beer

and coffee.

Greek yogurt and pistachio

nuts.

then there's a little heart

with an arrow through it.

love, Emily, it says,

be careful and

hurry back.

we have time, she says

we should

go before the rain starts,

i tell her.

she looks

up at the sky, and says

let's wait.

we have time.

but we don't and it begins

to pour.

in minutes

we're soaked to the bone.

now?

i ask. to which she smiles

and says,

okay.

sure.

can we count on you for support

election

season is heating up.

the texts

and e-mails, the barrage of phone

calls

and knocks on the door

are relentless.

you can smell desperation.

can we count on your

support

for this guy, or that guy,

this woman?

all colors, sizes and ages.

i've never seen or heard

of any of them before.

democrat, republican.

fascists or communist?

who knows.

what's the point anymore?

let them fight it out

in a cage, or take an

intelligence test, see who

gets the best score.

not unexpected

there was always a kid

in the neighborhood who figured

out how to

put a nail on the end of

a stick

and then went

hunting for frogs or fish

in the creek.

he was usually a strange

kid, with crazy parents,

in a house your mother never

let you visit.

you always wondered what

happened to them,

those kids with the nails

on the end of a stick,

looking to stab something.

you're not surprised when you see

them in the metro section

of the paper, a picture of

them in handcuffs, smiling.

the tilt a whirl

they put

the carnival up in about an hour

in the abandoned mall

parking lot.

are these

the rides you want

to put

your two year old kid on?

a thousand pieces of metal

strewn

together in the dead

night

by circus people.

and now

you hand your kid to someone

with no teeth,

covered in

tattoos, and wearing a shirt

saying that

Satan is alright.

what could go wrong

you think, as the man

with one eye turns

to you

and says, don't worry dad,

we buckled him in

real tight.

there's love and then there's home

she meets

a man

who has a job in Singapore.

so she goes with

him.

it's what people do who

are first in love.

overwhelmed

by emotion.

she lives there for a week.

it's too hot.

the bugs.

the food.

the language.

she misses home.

she misses her cat and dog.

her lawn.

her friends.

but what about love,

the man says,

as she packs her bag.

she shrugs,

i know, but i have to go.

so long.

he's a better me

the man

who stole my identity

is living in

my house now.

i dropped my wallet on the subway

and he became

me.

he's walking my

dog, taking my kids

to school,

making love to my wife.

everyone is happy now,

i stand out

in the street

and watch him, as he

paints the shutters

and mows the lawn,

digs up the weeds.

he's in the backyard

now

cooking on the grill,

saying hi

to the neighbors.

he's friendly.

no one seems to miss me.

the real me.

in fact,

he's a better me, 

in that

i don't disagree.

a postcard from Venice

of course

it was beautiful.

the architecture, the haze

of blue

in the air.

the scent of history,

of a thousand years.

it was exactly like every movie

or postcard

you had ever seen.

the gondolas.

the men in striped shirts.

the little shops,

the canals,

St. Marks with its

innumerable pigeons.

the glass blowers

and artists,

but then

there was us. a lot of us.

off cruise

ships and buses.

taking pictures and selfies.

an hour of walking

around,

then on our way.

to be continued

i ask the kid,

who is

religiously at the corner

for the last two years

with a sign,

how long can he do this?

he looks at me

and says

it's the governments fault.

he's clean,

well dressed, tanned,

a sideways

hat on, but other than that

he doesn't look

too disheveled

and crazy.

then the light changes

so he goes

back to the start of 

his walk.

reviewing the rules again

didn't we have

this argument last week,

i ask

the love of my life, Betty.

yes, we did, she says.

motioning for me to get

my feet off

the coffee table,

and to put a coaster

under my drink,

but perhaps we should

review what we said

before, the rules 

that we're set.

come on, do we have to?

yes, we do.

you don't seem to listen.

the argument is now

in session.

i have the floor.

the short life of mittens

the mitten

period of your life,

ends when

you're about four.

after that you need fingers.

you have

stuff to do.

you need them

to open things,

scratch things, put

them where they don't

belong.

you'll never wear

another pair

of mittens again once

you figure that out.

mittens no more, no

matter how

cold it gets, or how

much snow falls.

room for rent at the beach

the rental

room

at the beach

smelled like teenagers had

been living there.

the sink

backed up.

with a toilet overflowed.

a hovering cloud

of joints smoked.

body odor.

and pizza.

a bar of Irish Spring

on the sink.

orange peels

in the disposal.

la dee da and everyone

don't be famous.

you don't want that.

you don't need that.

be a ghost.

anonymous and free.

you don't want

la dee da and everyone

saying hello to you

when you walk

down the street.

your clutter and mine

we have different ideas

of what clutter is.

to you,

it's books and paper,

magazines strewn

across the tables.

shoes and coats, draped

over chairs.

empty glasses on

the sill.

matches and candles

on small dessert plates.

pencils and pens on

the floor.

boxes at the top of the stairs.

for me it's people.

a penny saved

your savings

will

not save you.

the equity in your house.

the penny jar,

the inheritance.

stocks and bonds.

crypto, whatever that is.

there is no silver

lining to this life.

no one

gets out alive.

you take nothing with

you

to the other side.

eat, drink and be merry,

then it's off

into the sky.

the power washer

have you lost

the thrill of your electric power

washer?

is it over

with the leaky

hose, cumbersome

wire

and long metal

nose. are you done with

cleaning

the brick, the patio,

the car,

the bike, the shed.

scouring

the world of mildew

and dirt

that's so quick to return.

so many

hours invested,

so much noise and effort.

but it was

fun while it

lasted.

here, have a go at it.

start it up and hold on.

it's your turn.

unreadable

 a thick

book of fiction, is not always

palpable

enough to read,

but you find other uses

for it.

War and Peace

or Ulysses.

it holds a window up,

allowing

the breeze,

or the door 

from closing.

it's not a first edition,

so who cares.

let the dog nibble

at its cover, tear

at the dried pages,

of so many unread leaves.

not even a small sting?

a bee swings

in,

and hovers

near my arm, but

changes

his mind

and wanders off

in noisy fashion.

but

i'm a little offended

that he didn't

find me

savory enough

to sting or take a bite.

weathered

even

brick in time will

crumble,

the stones of love

stacked

strong and high,

the weather

will

see to it.

circumstances

beyond your control.

although you wish

it weren't true,

nothing last forever.

trust me

on that.

i'll get the light

i don't

want to know you

that well.

i want to

skim

the surface of you.

of your

skin, covering heart

and bone.

i don't want to dig deep

into your

psyche

and find darkness.

let's pretend our

happiness is true.

stay where you are,

i'll get the light,

don't move.

we'll see tomorrow

when struck

by personal misfortune

it's hard to disagree

with Wallace Stevens

that the world

is sad, and the people

are ugly.

but come morning,

in the arms of a loved

one, with a new day ahead,

you may see things

differently.

just maybe.

the clothesline

the stiff

breeze against

her face,

her hair pulled back.

the chill of wet grass

against her

feet.

a basket of

wet clothes

beside her.

a pocket full of clothespins.

one wooden

one

between her teeth.

this is how she got away.

a vacation

from the chaos inside,

three times

a week.

the last stop

as the young man

straightens his tie

and 

sits down,

he hands us a brochure

of the senior

home.

there's a pool he says.

inside

and out.

pickleball,

tennis for those who

still can

get around.

there's a cafeteria too,

bowling,

and if you go with

the two bedroom deluxe

unit,

you'll have a very nice

view

of the park.

there's a nurse on staff.

a cleaning

crew.

these units

will go fast,

so please, don't hesitate

too long.

you'll love it here

and they'll love you.

black and white photographs

we

were young.

we had uncles and aunts,

cousins.

we would gather

in south Philly,

in the yards and streets.

everyone

was alive then.

everyone still had

had time.

there was food and music.

dancing.

long nights 

in candlelight yards.

it was different then.

it's different now.

how quickly

it all goes by.

the Krispy Creme hot sign is on

my friend

Jocko, tells me that he just

can't lose

the last fifteen pounds

around his belly.

yeah.

visceral fat is tough,

i tell him.

what, he says.

what kind of fat?

visceral.

it's a thick yellow layer

of fat

under your skin.

you get it from fried

foods and beer,

sugar,

trans fats.

seed oils. bread.

potato chips, junk like

that.

donuts.

you mean i have to stop

eating donuts

to slim down?

yup.

forget about it, he says.

hey look the hot sign

is on

across the street.

Krispy Creme,

my treat.

it's this giant hole in the earth

you have to,

you just have to go and see

the Grand Canyon,

she says.

let's rent a Winnebago

and drive out

there.

you have to see it.

but i have seen it, i tell

her, my hand

deep into a bag of Cheetos.

when,

when did you see it.

i saw it on tv and in the movies.

North by Northwest,

and other 

movies.

i've seen the moon too,

so don't make any plans

to go there either.

i'm not going.

buyers remorse

thirty thousand

dollars

later,

after the sit down dinner,

the carriage

ride through

town,

the band no longer

playing,

and her at last

out of the wedding

gown,

she stares at

the bauble

on her finger

and has second thoughts.

her name is Clare

i start a relationship

with a new

humanoid robot,

fresh off the factory line,

a subsidiary

of Tesla.

her name

is Clare.

she's almost perfect.

shapely

in those ways

that most men prefer.

she cooks,

she cleans. she makes

love.

and never complains.

i only have to recharge her,

once a day.

she has

skin soft as velvet,

silk like hair.

she's always nice,

polite,

an excellent companion.

if i'm late,

or distant and tired,

she just smiles,

i never have

to explain.

what's that on your face?

no,

it's not leprosy,

or

monkey pox.

it's not some rare

disease

airborne

by a sneeze.

no it's just a blemish

that the dermatologist

put her gun to,

pointing

and then squeezing

the trigger

to freeze.

i should be good

by Tuesday.

allowable once

more to be seen.

learning just enough to sound smart

we dabble

in this and that.

far from becoming an expert.

but we learn

the buzz words

which we throw around

to make it seem

as if we know

everything there is

to know

about almost anything.

it's in a book,

in our phone,

tid bits of knowledge

at our fingertips.

i do it all

the time with narcissism

and borderlines.

ants on a mission

it's a line of black

ants

in the kitchen, an army

of ants marching,

with barrels

of crumbs and sugar

on their

backs.

i want to talk with them,

these soldiers,

tell them

to stop, to show

me where they're going.

no need to work

this hard,

my friends,

i'll personally deliver

whatever you need,

just show me how

you got in.

there are weeds to pull

the broken gate will

be fixed,

so will the tile on the roof

where the

rain gets in.

those steps that creak,

not to worry come Saturday

i'm on it.

thank you

for reminding me of all

the chores i have

to do.

it keeps us from talking

and deciding

what's next with us,

what will we do?

no counting sheep

it's easy

to fall asleep now.

simple.

a pleasant way to end

a day

of work.

hard work.

the mind at ease with

bills paid.

the house

in order. there's no

hunger here,

no drama, per se,

nothing that bothers

you,

or keeps you awake.

getting the blood out

i saw her

at the sink, scrubbing

madly at

her blouse.

murmuring

to herself as she

pushed a bar

of soap

into the stain.

what are you doing?

i asked her.

i'm trying

to get the blood out

she said,

tearfully,

it's too late though.

with blood, it's always

difficult to get it out.

things are

never quite the same.

after six weeks of texting and phone calls

he was a large

man,

she told me. speaking of her

long awaited

blind date

at the Italian restaurant.

he was pleasant

enough, but

i felt

nothing that made me

want to see him again.

he had nice

blue eyes

and pulled the chair out

for me.

he was generous.

kind

and thoughtful, 

eager, as recently

widowed or divorced 

men often are.

then

he tried to kiss me

when he walked me to my

car,

but i turned my cheek

avoiding his lips.

he said, okay, okay.

i'm sorry, then drove off.

the motorcycle crash

i see

the wreck, the spill of metal,

glass,

the traces

of what was

spread out across the road.

all lit up

by the lights of

red engines,

blue swirls of patrol

cars.

and there,

wrapped in white, lies

the body.

heavy in the tall grass,

waiting for what's next,

no longer

in a hurry.

pale and pretty

pale

and pretty,

this quiet of sand

and sea.

the swim of gulls.

the pull of a freighter

along

the curve

of earth, plowing

it's path

in the distance,

disappearing as if magic.

despite

the ethereal joy

of the moment.

you know, you know

so well

that none of it 

will last.

i can walk from here

i can

walk from here, i tell

the cab

driver.

let me out here.

i reach over the seat

and drop

him his money.

but it's raining, he says.

i can take

you the next three

blocks,

we're almost there.

it's okay,

i tell him.

i like walking in the rain.

go on,

go on, it's okay.

i'm alright.

hurry, you're going to

miss the light.

still life painting

her

still life painting hangs

on my wall.

a vase

with flowers,

a bowl of fruit.

there's a sheen,

a bright

lacquer giving

shine to it all.

i remember when

the canvas

was white, blank

with imagination.

it took me to leave 

and her to stay,

for her to fill it and

make the world right.

i'll pencil you in

i pencil you in,

because i know at some point

i'll get

the call

telling me that you can't

make it

tonight, or tomorrow.

something has come

up again.

it's fine, i get it.

with you i've put away

the ink pen.

they know better

we're supposed to care,

obligated

to give a damn

about what an actor says,

a celebrity.

someone

in the lime light.

running

and jumping, swinging

for the fence.

they must know

and understand the world

better than we do.

they give us

hope,

what they believe

and tell us, gives 

us all a chance.

a Stanley Kowalski moment

i have a bone

to pick

with you, she says, coming

home from work,

throwing down

her briefcase.

you parked your car

in the parking

spot in front of the house.

my spot.

we agreed that that would

be my spot

after we got married.

i'm at the kitchen

table

tearing into a rotisserie chicken,

holding a greasy bone

in my hand.

it's ironic, i tell her,

you have a bone

to pick with me

and i'm holding a bone in

my hand right now

when you say that.

she's not in a humorous

mood though.

no surprise there.

i almost call her Blanche,

but don't.

a full day

it's not

a wasted day. not at all.

i got a lot

of thinking done,

got 

some serious pondering

out of the way.

took a walk.

scrambled some eggs.

stared out the back window

for a while.

read some pages

in a book.

wrote a bunch of throw

away poems.

listened to music.

looked out the kitchen

window as people came

home from work.

turned the television on,

then turned it off.

finally got dressed.

after taking

a cat nap and a cold shower.

it's been a good day.

not a single minute wasted.

now what?

when his ship came in

Jake,

in the years before he died

of lung

cancer, used to talk

longingly

about

the money he would one

day inherit,

once the land was sold.

family land,

from three generations

back.

civil war land.

he'd get this look in his

eyes, paint

brush in his hand, and

say, 

one day, one day.

i'm going to build a cabin

in the woods,

up there in the hills

where i can't be bothered.

i could have a dog

and maybe a bunch

of rabbits.

my own still.

he'd get this big grin on

his face,

a cigarette dangling

between his lips.

maybe i could find a good

woman up there too.

someone to keep me warm

at night.

we'd love each other.

that's nice, Jake i'd tell him.

that's nice.

but be careful, you're dropping

ashes into the paint.

you can stop talking now

it's the lidocaine

that hurts,

squirted from

a needle beneath

my skin,

not the scraping

of a scalpel

against my scalp.

so how's your love

life,

the dermatologist

asks, trying to distract me,

as she

drops a piece

of my skin into a little

plastic cup,

then seals the lid.

it has it's ups and down,

i tell her.

you know.

it's not unlike a box

of chocolates out there.

i had a date last

weekend

with this girl from

Sperryville,

Misty, was her name.

okay, the doctor says.

you can stop talking now.

we're done.

the subway in nines

i like

the old couple on the subway.

quietly together,

unafraid,

with cane

in hand,

dressed up for the night.

a white silk

scarf,

a top hat, and her

in pearls,

and black, 

dressed to the nines

as they say.

off to a show, like

they did

in the years before you

were even

born.

casually disappearing

into their

Saturday nights.

enjoying life.

one more night, please

it's a strange

thing,

being human, the moods

we swing through,

for better

or worse.

the happy times,

the blues.

we're almost always

searching for something

or someone.

perpetually worried

and confused.

and yet we want more.

we want another

day,

another night.

we want to keep it going,

despite

the mystery of it all.

we want to be a better

person,

have another chance,

despite the fails.

she reminds me of you

she reminds me of you.

except

for the red hair,

the green eyes,

and the long legs.

she laughs more than

you,

is smarter, prettier,

and easier to get along with.

she's stable and secure

and loves to cook.

she's never even had

electroshock therapy,

or needed an exorcism,

but still,

she reminds me of you.

i'm not sure why exactly,

but i'll figure it out

at some point.

punching the clock

i make a list of all the jobs

i've either quit,

been fired from, or got laid

off from.

digging ditches,

washing dishes,

hanging pink battens

of insulation

while standing on a pair

of stilts.

carpenter's helper.

mopping halls and cutting

grass.

paper boy. hauling bricks

in wheel barrows.

washing cars.

shoveling snow.

factory worker.

pumping gas.

computer programmer.

selling clothes.

they all stunk, each and

every one of them.

but i had a car, a home.

food. sports.

and money to spend when

i went out dancing

and carousing

with my friends.

even my dog had a bone.

just a little of the top

i've had the Bobby Sherman 

hair cut in my youth,

the Beaver Cleaver

style with a part

when twelve.

i've had the mullet for an hour

or two in

the 70's.

with purple pants and

a polyester blouse.

the Elvis look in junior high.

the beach boy look

for a while, then

the Woodstock doo,

with a ponytail,

flashing the peace sign.

the buzz cut ala 
Clint Eastwood.

now i'm down to Curly,

with that clean

aerodynamic look

of one of the stooges.

i have ten minutes on Tuesday

it doesn't matter who they are,

doctor,

lawyer, bum,

pastry chef,

or a teacher.

no one has the time

anymore, ten minutes

to call their own.

dog walkers,

clerks,

retired people at the lake

throwing

bread to the ducks.

it doesn't matter.

we're all on the clock.

is there anyone

not busy? not looking

at their

watch,

their notepad,

their phone?

checking in with someone

else

to get free, to have

a spare moment.

is there anyone you can

call and say,

hey,

let's go have a bite,

a drink,

a chat,

come on, let's go?

not many. almost none.

Farah's red bathing suit poster

basically

glue

doesn't work, at least

for very long.

but i give it a shot,

seeing the ad

with 

a three hundred pound

gorilla

hanging from a skyscraper

girder

above New York

with one hairy arm.

if a little dot of glue

can hold

a gorilla, surely

it can hold

this classic and very

valuable poster of Farah

Fawcett in a red

bathing suit

on the wall.

SexySadie

i think we met

a long

time ago on an internet

dating site,

she tells me.

i look at her as we

stand

in the grocery store.

both of us staring at

a pile of asparagus.

maybe, i tell her.

what's your name.

oh, i went by SexySadie,

but my real

name is Marsha.

weren't you the Italian

Stallion?

no, that wasn't me.

that was my brother.

i went by Joey123.

oh, right right.

we had drinks and calamari

one night about

twenty years ago, then

you walked me

back to my car.

hmm. i tell her, could be

me.

what happened next.

well, she says, beginning to

blush.

we dated for a few years,

got married

and had two children.

don't you remember?

nah. it's all a blur now,

i did a lot of binge dating

back then, but

look, i have to run.

nice seeing you again.

it's your life

it's a loud noise,

i tell

the mechanic, like a popping

sound,

but not like

popping popcorn,

or stepping on bubble wrap,

more of a thud

kind of noise. like

a very small thunder

clap coming from under

the hood,

but only when it's cold

out, or the engine

is cold.

he scratches his head

with a ratchet

wrench he's holding in his

greasy hand.

uh uh, he says.

we'll take a look at it.

are you going to wait

or need a shuttle?

i'll wait i tell him.

he shrugs and says, okay.

your life. do what you want.

go over there

and sit down.

who is this?

i miss

the strange voiceless

calls,

the heavy breathing.

the silence.

all the fun and guessing

has been taken

out of the phone

calls at three a.m.

with caller I D.

the good old days

are truly gone.

no milk at the door.

no fuller brush man.

even Mormons

seem to be taking a break

from knocking

anymore.

mid summer soup

it hurts,

the pinch of burned tongue

touching

a much too hot

bowl

of soup.

what are you doing eating

soup in

the middle of the summer

anyway?

lesson learned

again.

you must

blow hard on the spoon,

wave

your hand across

the pond of steam.

dip your head with caution,

lips parted,

now sip gently.

the bug has you

it's hard

for the actor to stop acting,

even in casual

conversation, he's on,

or the writer

to stop

writing. observing

in his

head what he'll

transcribe later

before bed.

you see the artists

scratching

in the dirt or sand,

carving

things in wood.

the singer

in the shower belting

out,

a song.

the musician in the car,

tapping

his hands

on the dashboard.

once you have the bug,

the bug

has you.

it looks like a frying pan

aliens,

really?  everyone has a phone

with a camera,

a video

camera.

we have satellites,

and telescopes

everywhere.

not one has shown up

on my Ring camera.

so where are they?

these men

from mars,

women from Venus,

insects

from some far away

galaxy?

where be you

star

people?

are you ready for

your close up.

are you that shy?

we want more than

some blurred

blip

on a screen that looks

like

a frying pan

without the handle.

we want Oprah to interview

you.

come on, show your

face, you

interstellar creatures.

burrowed in the brush

clever, the red fox,

behind

the tree, angled down

in brush,

barely seen

as i take the trash

to the curb.

he's patient with the sun,

with our

eventual lights

going off,

one by one.

he has all night,

to quiver still,

waiting for us to fall

asleep.

the silent treatment

my father

used to punish my mother

with the silent treatment.

maybe she

burned his toast,

or didn't iron

his shirts properly,

my ex

used to do the same to me,

when i asked

her why she was still

secretly seeing

her married boyfriend,

her ex-husband,

a random man she met

on the street.

baby driver

yesterday

the kid was in a stroller,

where did

fifteen years go?

i see him now behind

the wheel

of his father's car,

his father nervously

buckled in,

both happy

and scared at the same

time.

i wait before i pull

out.

cow juice

as i drink

from the glass half gallon

of A2 milk,

whole milk, thick

and creamy,

i stumble upon

a posting online

from Dr. Berg,

that milk might not be

good for you after all.

stay away from dairy,

he says,

holding up a chart

showing an actuary table

of milk drinkers,

stating their early demise.

quickly i spit it out.

which pleases the cat

and dog, who come

running.

paranoia

someone is jiggling

the doorknob

on the other side

of the door.

i peer into the peephole,

and i see another

eye looking back at me.

what? i ask.

who is that?

what do you want?

everything, the man says.

everything you got.

you can let us in now,

or we can come back

after you're gone.

okay, okay.

later would be better.

we got to get out of this place

what about Iceland,

she asks me,

we could go there.

they have the lowest

crime rate

in the world.

but is it cold there?

i ask.

yeah, i guess so.

they do have Ice in the name,

but

that's okay. we have

coats and hats.

gloves.

i still haven't worn

the scarf and mittens

my mother made

me for Christmas

last year.

crack pipe vending machines

they legalize

the dope, put crack pipes

in vending machines.

society

has given up.

free needles

for everyone.

the prisons are too full.

let them

drive wasted

on the freeway,

shoot up the schools.

let it all go to hell in a

handbasket,

tents, and shopping

carts.

beggars on every

corner.

the cities are on fire.

has the apocalypse

arrived

already?

the freeze gun

the doctor

takes her freeze gun

and has as field day

on my skin.

i take my shirt off,

my pants and

around and around

she goes.

from head to toe.

oh my, she says.

growing up you really

did like the sun

didn't you?

manual labor

it's a job.

a real job. one where

you set the alarm

and get up

and go.

it's one where you sweat,

and work.

using your hands

as well

as your brain, your

legs, your

shoulders.

there is struggle

and strain.

you bleed.

it's a real job.

you aren't at home

in your pajamas

with a cup

of tea

typing in your password,

your name.

it's a real job,

and when you get home,

you eat,

you drink, you play.

and then

you sleep,

which comes easily, because

you have a job,

a real job,

not one with the tv on

as you waste away.

don't be a project

i see the word

assembly

required, and move on.

give me

the thing ready,

done.

completed.

i don't need another project,

i don't want to build,

nail after nail,

tightening screws.

sorting through

a jumbled box

of pieces.

come to me as you are

meant to be

finished.

sturdy, reliable,

ready for use.

and by the way,

this includes you.

waiting on sleep to arrive

she fell asleep on the train,

her head

resting on my shoulder.

i had the window seat,

and stared at the world

rolling by.

the trees and water,

the churches with weddings

in progress,

past the cemeteries,

the factories, the abandoned

houses, the litter

and all the beauty.

mile after mile.

the rust of it all.

the sheen of new.

there were children,

men and women

on porches.

standing at windows,

white haired,

and thin,

some waving as the train

passed by.

it was everything and

nothing.

this world outside.

at last i was tired enough,

i closed my eyes.

ashes in a can

where

will the ashes go?

back home?

which is where?

what sea,

what ocean, what

country

shall we toss him

into the air.

and be done.

look at how easily

they fly

away.

a single life

tucked in a can,

now gone.

shooting at Paradiso

there was a shooting

at the strip

club

the other night.

the cops arrived, the crowd

came out

to witness

the bodies lying in

a pool blood

in the parking lot.

even the dancers came

out in their

stockings and thin

robes,

teetering in

high heels, with

dollar bills still stuck

to their legs.

and then someone,

the boss, a barrel

of a man

yelled out, nothing

to see here,

back to work

girls.

on with the show.

another batch of humans

people haven't given up,

have they?

the yards

are full of children.

what

are other sign of hope

is more

important

than that. perhaps

the next

batch of humans will

figure this out.

get it right, at last.

a longer spin cycle, perhaps?

maybe my

clothes aren't bright enough,

the whites

whiter, the colors

more pronounced,

maybe i'm using the wrong

detergent.

should i go with

the condensed powder,

or the liquid.

do i go with soft

wash, or cold.

have i cheated myself on

the spin cycle?

do i use bleach, perhaps

a cap full

of softener, or a ply

of scented

chemicals in the dryer.

i need to

analyze my washing procedures.

maybe take a class 

at night at the community

center.

my clothes seem

to have a sour odor, 

a swampy smell to them,

having left them wet

in the washer overnight,

this could be directly

related to being home alone

on the weekends.

weeding the yard

after early morning

church, you'll find

the old

man in his yard,

bent

over

raking, spreading

mulch.

digging weeds.

the neighbor

and his wife are gone

now.

they went south.

a new family will arrive

soon

to introduce themselves.

maybe his

children

will stop by, his ex wife,

to see how

he's getting along.

bring him clothes

and cakes, help

him charge his phone.

he wonders

as he rests in the sun,

sitting on the steps,

what the point was

in all of this.

what was it all about?

what could go wrong?

it's not rocket science,

but

it feels that

way as i lay out the diagrams,

without words,

vague sketches

of how the bookcase

should be made.

there's a drawing

of each nail

and screw, bolt and cam,

drawn to size

and numbered.

i turn on the big light.

the small light

and put a flashlight in

my hand.

i separate the twelve

pieces of pressed

wood from

the box,

then find a hammer,

a screw driver,

and a gin

and tonic, what could go

wrong?

in three or four hours,

i'll have an answer.

the dead sea scroll

the clerk,

young as young can be,

peach fuzzed,

and exhausted from

being up so early,

searches

the newspaper

for a bar code, 

turning it side to side,

with a quizzical

look on his blank face,

but it's oblivious he's never

seen one of these. 

this ancient scroll

from some dead sea,

so i tell him, try the back

at the very bottom,

and he finds it.

then searches the paper,

section by section,

looking for more.

i stop him and tell him,

that's all there is.

there are no more.

the carvings

some kid

came along and etched his name

in the tree

in our yard.

he thought his

love still lived here,

though she moved

a long time ago.

i could see the sickness

in his eyes as

he carved his name

and hers

together.

i watched from the window.

understanding 

the trouble of love

and not letting go.

the shark bite

shyly,

she shows

me the scar on her leg,

lifting up

the hem

of her skirt,

shark,

she says.

he took a bite of me

on the gulf coast.

my turn

i tell her,

and begin to nibble

gently

on her neck

hoping she doesn't

swim away.

pulling the car over

as i pull

the car over to the side

of the road

to give the wild children

a tongue lashing,

but sprinkled with

love and care

i realize

that i don't have any

children,

that i'm not even in

a car.

but it would be nice

to be there.

unconditional love

there is none,

not really, we all draw lines

in the sand.

we have boundaries

and rules

to go by. lines

that can't

be crossed.

i think you should

know by now,

it's over.

i hope you understand.

so let go

of my heart.

my hand. there's no love

for you anymore.

nothing dies

no matter

how low i cut the vines,

or sever the roots

of brush,

and shrub

in late summer,

i'm always surprised

come spring

at how everything

i once thought dead

is still alive.

you will always be alone

i know

what you're thinking.

so

don't say it. don't utter

a single

word.

the fog

has lifted, the ship

is in port.

take your luggage

and your life

and begone.

don't turn and wave,

safe travels,

with the wind in 

your sails.

i know that you 

will always be alone.

another glass of milk

i come back

to milk.

i've missed it.

the tall cold glass,

white,

leaving a fine froth

upon

my lips.

i've missed you

whole milk,

labeled A2

from the creamery.

how a nice

a word is that?

creamery. organic

thick as glue.

pour me another.

i can almost hear

the moo.

finding a corner

not good at small talk,

i find

a chair on the far

side of the room,

near the dog

asleep

on the floor.

we get along just fine.

no talk

of politics, no jokes

or flattery, no

talk of weather, or wars,

or money.

tell me about your

wine cellar,

your new car? 

your trip to Singapore, no,

none of that,

with fido, it's a wonderful

time.

the early red flag

she said she could cook.

i believed

her.

i believed nearly everything

she told me.

how could i not.

just look at her,

an angel.

a beauty from above.

but

when the stove

caught fire,

catching the curtains,

the rug,

setting off the alarm,

and filling the house

with smoke,

i began wonder.

teaching your children

if you grow

up

in chaos and fear,

parents battling

through

the night.

the adrenaline rush is in

your veins.

drama on the high seas.

it's home to you,

the broken

glass, the violence,

the cut

wires.

it's what you know and

what you'll

seek in another,

wrongly,

not knowing there is

a real thing,

called peace and quiet.

love without fear.

at a certain age

to each

child the question looms

at a certain

age,

about life and death.

the road

ahead.

is there a God,

is there

hell or heaven, or has

someone made

it all up

to keep us in line.

to keep

us wondering

to keep our heads

down,

hands on the wheel, 

quietly biding our time.

it's not you at all

in the store window,

the reflection, of course,

is not you,

it's an imaginary

glimpse

of light and form,

not you

at all, for you are still

young,

bright and strong,

and it's not your age

that others

hold the door, no,

it's politeness,

kindness if you may,

the reason that

the boy

or girl helps you

across the road.

someone that you love

if you

find me, be careful, be gentle.

ignore

the words

i've written,

the hard false shell

i've made.

ignore my wounds as you

help me to the bath,

then to the bed.

read to me,

pray with me.

lay down beside me.

pretend if you have to

that i'm someone

that you love.

the best teachers

you remember their

names,

the best teachers,

who broke

your heart, gave you f's

and d's,

made you stay

after class until you

learned

a little bit more.

they cracked the whip,

slapped you

around,

until you finally

understood the lesson,

raised your

grades to a B or C.

the other teachers

you have no

memory of.

another box for the closet

i need another box

to put

more things in that i don't need

or want,

and will never

use, but can't bear

to throw away.

step gently

over the lid, as you can see,

i've made room

for you too.

you have a plan

i understand

that you aren't pleased

with me.

i see it

in your brow, your

once

pretty

face, a bright star,

darkened now.

i see it in the way

your arms

are crossed, the way your

head has become heavy

in your hands.

all of it,

even the tears you shed,

tells me

that you have a plan.

so little matters

the cold

water is not surprising.

it awakens

you.

quickens you

to dive

and go below.

to swim out, away

from the shore,

far from

the shallows

where you can touch

a bottom.

to swim and swim

beneath the surface,

to hold your breath

until

you can't hold it

anymore,

then to look back

at what

little was little behind

that truly

mattered.

this is what you came

here for?

where to go

tired

of people. of road rage.

of rudeness,

the lack

of courtesy, the lack

of spirituality.

tired

of ego.

of self indulging

half

baked souls,

weary

of narcissism

in the young

and old

alike.

just one day would

be nice

to not hear a single

lie told.

the mid life crisis

what's wrong,

she asks, hand on my hand,

as i sit

and cry

on the front steps.

what is it that troubles you?

from the outside

looking in, you

lack nothing,

what's wrong with you?

nothing,

i tell her, nothing at all.

it's just a mid

life crisis of some sort.

that's all.

really, don't worry yourself

about me.

which makes her laugh,

as she wipes away my tears,

then says,

do you really believe you're

going to live

until you're a hundred

and fifty?

the truth be known

the woods are

filled in quite nicely with

its usual

green.

thickly covered is every

limb of every tree.

you can no longer

see the water,

the blue sleeve of stream.

come winter though.

it will all be clear

again. the branches

grey and bare,

their truth be known.

everything will be known

and seen.

death gives you that.

what's going on?

it's goes

without question

that things have gone

awry.

you can

feel it in the air,

see it

in a stranger's eye,

there's

a chord of chaos

on the street,

things around here

aren't what they

used to be.

on your doorstep

it was

bound to happen,

America

infecting the world

with its own

idea

of what happiness

looks like.

it's red,

it's white, it's blue,

and comes in all sizes.

tomorrow

or today,

and for just an extra pence,

it's delivered

on your doorstep,

just for you.

she poured him milk

her husband,

prosperous and quiet,

neat

in his bow tie and starched

shirt,

always at the table

with a cold

glass of milk, that

she poured,

knew little, as

he and her

wanted it to be.

why kill the cow,

with knowledge of her

life long chore

of infidelity.

of being born

without a cell

of creativity within her,

no skill

at song, or word,

art.

she turned

to what

she could do

in order to thwart off

the demons

that troubled

her soul.

in her hands she took

to butter

and cream, sugar, eggs,

all swished

together in

the large bowl.

there was order to her

life now, control.

the recipe,

the set time and temperature

of the oven.

the layered cakes,

and shaped by hand

muscles of dough,

at last there was

some vague sense of being

part of this world,

of being born.

type in banana

they know

what we want, type

in ripe bananas

and the next that appears

are monkeys

and islands.

costa rican

bikinis,

and coconut trees.

yellow

cars and sunsets.

clothes

and books, movies

you haven't seen.

it's all there, at your

fingertips

anything to do with

bananas

is now

a link to your screen.

close calls

we have

close calls, with tacks

and nails,

shards of glass, 

missing injury by

mere inches, or seconds,

car crashes

somehow avoided.

the tree limb

falling as you just

pass by.

the snake, slithering

between your

feet,

the shark in the water

bumping

your leg.

lighting mysteriously

striking a tree

as you stand in the rain.

it's a lifetime of near

misses.

it just isn't your time yet,

as your car

crosses the tracks

a split second before

a roaring train.

the magic carpet ride

the highway

litter

is colorful, the red and blue

plastic,

cups,

lids and straws, hamburger

wrappers.

look over there, it's

a disposable

diaper,

oh, and a gin bottle.

some shoes

are in the trees,

cigarette butts

still burning,

papers

and magazines.

chicken bones,

and crab shells,

in the wind it all flies

around,

it's magical.

oh look, the car

in front of us just threw

something out.

let's take a look,

slow down.

he couldn't wait to go back

my friend Jake,

told me

longingly about his stay

in jail, third

DUI, and a bar fight,

how his cell

had a barred window

with a view

of the morning sun.

single occupancy

with a twin bed.

he said the food was not

too bad.

bacon and eggs,

for breakfast 

and sandwiches for lunch,

chicken dinners,

with jello for dessert

before bed.

he worked on his muscles

in the yard,

and had access to the library

and computer,

and of course unlimited

tv time.

Saturday nights was bingo

or a movie,

or charades. 

occasionally an intense

card game of 

old maid. Sunday was

for church and visitor

hours.

it was the best sixty days

of my life,

he said.

it's reward time

she was a personal

trainer

for years.

i'd see her in her spandex

shorts

and top

yelling at people

at the park.

getting the most out

of them.

demanding them to do

sit ups,

push ups. sprints.

stretching,

and then doing it 

all over again.

very bossy.

but she had nice hair

and nails

and was driving a green

Jaguar.

so she was doing quite

well. but

boy did she crack the whip

on those tubbies,

none of them ever

losing a pound of weight

or getting in shape.

most of them

heading straight to Duck

Donuts when

the session was over.

where'd she go?

the neighbor

is building something next

door.

a long box

of some sort,

that i caught a glimpse

of through

the window.

i hear the hammer,

the saws.

i see him carrying in planks

of wood.

it's just his voice,

with the music

on low.

i haven't seen the wife

lately though.

the arguing

has finally stopped.

a museum piece

it's a tough

decision, but the end of life

telemarketer

brings it up

about once an hour with a robo

call to my

cell phone.

burial or cremation?

he asks

for the twentieth time

today.

i'm still on the fence.

there has to be a kinder,

more civilized way.

maybe stuffed

and propped up in some

museum.

the big salad

they have

to kill everything in the field

to raise

a crop of avocados,

or lettuce.

rabbits

and snakes, turtles,

mice

and what not, birds too,

even worms

get their due,

then they spray

the field with chemicals

to kill off

what's left of life.

in the end there's

not a bug or fly

in sight.

enjoy your salad.

dying in the corner

i should

take down the Christmas tree

at some point.

it's been up

since

December.

the lights are still on,

but i'm

afraid to turn them

on, because of the fire

hazard.

there are no

needles anymore,

it's threadbare,

and bone dry.

i should toss it out

into the woods,

but i can't let go,

it reminds me so much

of hard times.

the life insurance policy

with nine children

in the wind,

that we know of,

i'm careful

to keep the secret that my father

has a million

dollar life

insurance policy

payable upon death,

which by the way,

even at the age of 95,

may never occur,

all the scotch

and soda,

the beer and lucky strike

cigarettes

in him, plus

the sun worshiping,

fighting

and carousing with

fast and slow women,

have somehow

combined

to make an enduring

elixir of perpetual youth.

i've seen

the will and the names,

crossed off,

and uncrossed.

this may be a litigious 

blood bath

at the end.

she finally broke

the first time

i heard

my mother say the f word,

using it in a full

sentence,

with verbs, nouns and adjectives,

i was

taken aback, to put

it mildly so i let

go of my

cry baby sister's pigtails

and muttered,

oh my.

this time i think she's

really mad, i thought.

i hadn't heard

a word like that since my

father was around.

i grabbed my ball

and glove, my bat,

and beat it outside.

the cat in a tree

she liked

the bird with the broken

wing,

the rescue dog,

the cat

caught in a tree.

she adored

the slow turtle

helping it

across the street.

lost

and stray animals

were her thing,

the sick and infirmed,

but when it came

to me,

forget about it.

the old grapevine

the grapes

are withered and grey.

they've lost

interest in the world,

no longer worthy of

what they pass down.

they can't

be trusted anymore

with hearsay

and gossip.

the news is late

in arriving these days,

or not at all.

i'd be better off putting

my ear

to the ground.

i smell what your cooking

is it too early

to take

a nap, i ask her, as she

peels

another potato

into the sink.

she's wearing her

satin black apron.

i nudge her with

an elbow, gently

in the ribs.

oh, i smell what

you're cooking,

she says.

i'll be right up, 

just let me put these

in a pot of water,

on low.

how much time,

we got?

with a whimper

after spilling

an enormous glass

of chocolate milk onto

my password

book.

i begin to cry.

the letters and numbers

run into one another,

smudged out of existence.

it's all gone, all those

years of hard work

coming up

with clever passwords

and non consecutive numbers,

symbols,

now gone to waste.

what am i to do.

how will i ever log

on to amazon again,

to Target

and DSW,

to the DMV, to Medicare and

social security,

Kaiser Permanente?

what about e-harmony,

and tinder and bumble,

and farmgirlsinKalamazoo?

this is how the world

ends, at least my world.

not with a bang, but

with a whimper.

farmer folk

the roadside

stand with their fat red

tomatoes

in wooden boxes

call to you.

the painted arrow

on a board tells you where

to turn

and park.

the corn in stacks,

the onions

and green beans.

they have cider too,

home made

pies and cakes.

crabs are being steamed

in back.

why press on to the beach.

stay here.

camp

and relax.

Bill and Marge,

old farmer folks.

they are too nice to be true.

the further from

the city you go.

life is strangely

less blue.

perpetual

it's that

pause before answering

that gives her

away.

the eyes shifting,

the pull of hair, the shuffle

of feet.

she's selecting

words

to say, to calm you, to

avoid

admission of guilt,

once more.

soon, words will tumble

from her lips.

a word salad

that you've heard so

many times

before.

reluctant to change

have you

changed, no, would be the short

answer.

have you grown,

matured,

leveled out the waters

of your

troubled youth.

no.

not at all, you just hide

it better now,

and smile.

math at night

a word

left unsaid, but hanging

in the air

like a cold balloon

type moon

awakens

you from sleep.

you do the math

in the middle of the night.

the equations

of love.

how far away she is.

how hard

it would be to get there,

to land

and plant the flag

you hold.

Pancakes in Three Miles

in a different era

we learned what lay ahead

on the road

by giant signs propped

up in corn fields,

enormous billboards told

us where to go

for fried chicken,

or pancakes,

for drinks, for rest.

ten more miles

to paradise

they read. oh how

the world moved 

so wonderfully slow.

knowing what is known

of course

we learn quickly

on how little 

we truly know,

how unwise

we are,

and reluctant to become

wise.

we repeat

the same errors

over and over

again,

despite knowing

what is known.

the end is near

with confidence

they tell you not to worry,

or yes,

we should be worried.

all is well, or

the end is near.

this has been going on

for a long time.

each generation with

its own

set of hopes and fears.

the long journey home

we really hit it off

texting to one another

and talking on the phone, so

she drove her car

all the way

from Cleveland, to my house.

she had circles

under her eyes when she arrived,

and her windbreaker

she was wearing

was covered in coffee spills

and potato chip

crumbs. long drips of oatmeal.

she may have wet her pants too,

the travel

diaper she was wearing

was heavy and full,

but she still needed to use

the bathroom in a bad way,

so i let her in.

she rushed by me without

a word.

after she washed her

hands i told her

that i didn't think

we were a match, maybe

we've rushed into things,

to which she reluctantly agreed.

so she got in her car and

drove back

to Cleveland. i gave her gas

money, and money

for snacks along the way.

i've always had bad luck

with former cheerleaders.

i should have asked her

for a more current picture,

not the ones taken

from back in the day.

the Georgetown nights

oh, how we drank

our beer,

cold and cheap

light or dark,

draft

or bottled, it didn't matter.

we had

twenty bucks a piece

to burn through,

from dusk

to dawn. dancing

and carousing,

doing 

the pub crawl.

sometimes there'd

be a dollar or two

left over for a 

street hot dog, smothered

in relish and onions,

mustard,

perfect for the drive home.

triple feature drive-in

when younger

you had

to meet the parents and tell

them

what you're intentions

were with their daughter.

of course you lied,

what choice did you have?

the Italian mother

with her chopping knife,

and the father with

his muscled arms from

shoveling coal.

my intentions? i thought

to myself,

staring at my date in a pair

of tight jeans

and a low cut sweater.

well, i said. we're going

to choir practice and then

a prayer meeting,

at church, but after that

i'll drive her straight home.

i left out the part about

the triple feature

at the drive-in.

and the spot in the back row.

borderline 101

you wash,

i'll dry, i tell her as we

clear the table.

no, she says.

i want to dry.

how about you wash

this time.

look at my hands,

they're red

from washing, then

she begins

to cry.

okay, okay, i tell her.

settle down.

how about you go sit

on the couch

and i'll take care of this?

you don't love

me anymore, do you?

she says.

you're going to leave

me, aren't you?

hey, hey, we were

getting along just fine.

i'll be in my room,

she says.

i'm locking the door.

i'll sleep there tonight.

untethered at last

he rents

a tin trailer in Florida,

a veritable

tuna can

to disappear

in.

no car,

no money.

an old bike to get

him to the beach

with his towel and worn

book.

he's not taking

calls anymore,

all the talking is done.

he's made

his last sale,

now it's just him, 

him alone,

lying

in the setting sun

untethered

and off the rail.

no second gear

the turtle

has no choice but to be

patient.

there is no

speeding up, no other

gear

to get him

across the road.

does he care, does he

wish he

had

the mobility of a hare?

doubtful.

more than likely he's

good, as

we should be with who

we are.

eventually we all

get there,

go slow.

fading farewell

his bearded

face

reminds me of Walt Whitman,

though

he wouldn't be a friend

of his,

with his

predilection

towards men.

tolerant of others.

does he look kind now,

repentant

as he waits

for his door to close?

hardly.

just lost and confused,

his legacy

having little to do 

with you.

into what will be

of course they'll grow

older,

the push

on the swing

is just a temporary reprieve

from becoming us.

with our hands

against

their small backs we

push higher and higher,

as they shout with glee,

letting them rise upwards

towards the sun,

into the open sky,

into the arms

what will be.

the cold stare down

sometimes

in the middle of the night

the printer

will start printing

something

it forgot to finish

earlier in the day when

i hit the print button.

i get no apology

out of it for waking me up.

but in the morning

i just give it the look,

the cold stare down

as i drink my coffee.

no ink or paper for you,

i tell it, as i leave

for the day.

the Gumby treatment

she's had

her own business

for a while out there

on the left coast.

face yoga.

i've seen her online twisting

her mouth

and eyes,

twitching her nose.

stretching her face around

like Gumby.

i guess she's making

a go of it.

like the time she

became a minister,

or a Reiki master

doing sessions over the phone,

or a hot

yoga instructor mixed

in with yellow

belt martial arts.

she makes her own

make up

in the kitchen too.

using organic

herbs and spices.

creating in the sink,

a special wrinkle

removing goo.

she's out there, alright.

an entrepreneur.

my former east coast

wackadoodle.

ten acres for sale

those fields use to be

full of corn, he says,

standing

on his porch

which is about to cave in.

we had cows.

that over

there was the school,

my kids went to.

he points

to a pile of red bricks

across the road.

it was different

then, he says.

we played bingo on

Saturday nights

at the Knights of Columbus Hall.

my kids were young,

my wife alive.

she won the blue ribbon

nearly every year

she entered her blueberry pie.

there was so much time

ahead of us, so much time.

i'm sorry, he says,

for going on like this, 

i've taken up

enough of your time.

go ahead and plant your sign.

this might hurt a little

it's just a small

black dot,

a defect

in the bone white tooth, 

and yet

the needle will slide

into the gum

below it,

pink

and soft

and take the numbing

juice.

then the drill

will appear,

as if out of nowhere,

and so it begins.

why oh why

did i eat

so much candy when

young.

my year as a nude model

i made a little

extra

cash while in college

being a nude

model

for art classes.

it was cold at times

in the winter

semester,

and sometimes students

would point

and laugh,

but i pressed on.

sitting on hard

tables,

and not being able to

move if i had

an itch somewhere.

sometimes

i'd get a rash from

all the cleaning

fluids used on the floors

and desks.

i couldn't even wear

socks.

it was difficult when

i sat on

gum occasionally

and they had to call a nurse.

but no funny bone

i've been

looking for a pair of legs like

she had

for a long time.

i can still see them

stretched out

across the bed.

never have i seen a pair

of legs

like that.

not in the movies or

on stage,

the radio city dancers

had nothing on

her.

the best legs this side

of Sausalito.

if only she had a sense

of humor,

those legs might still

be here

sashaying up the stairs.

getting good advice

it's usually

the waitress, or the guy

cleaning

your gutter,

or washing your car

who give

you the wisest

advice.

forget the therapist

and priest,

stay away from the professionals.

if someone works

with their hands

and gets up every morning

at the crack of dawn,

to paint a house,

or shingle a roof,

listen to them.

they've had a lot of

alone time

to figure it all out.

the market

it's up a few

points, then down

a hundred,

up a few more,

a dozen or so.

it's a rollercoaster

ride

that you'd like

to get off,

but no one is able

to tell you

when to quit, when

to cash in.

when to collect

your investments

and at last be done.

the broker tells me

maybe next year,

just work a little more.

one more deposit,

one more churn,

one more roll of the dice.

i've never been

able to get her foot

out of my door.

how i got my black eye

careful

with my words. i select

a few

that i hope and pray

won't offend

her woke

sensibilities.

i pull out her chair,

which is my

first mistake.

don't do that, she tells me.

i do a kettlebell

work out every

other day, and i'm doing

my second triathlon

this weekend.

i don't need a man to pull

a chair out for me,

and don't even try

to pay.

i have my own money.

do you know what cross

fit is,

she asks me,

holding up her arm

and flexing

a tattooed bicep.

you mean walking and

chewing gum at the same time?

it gets worse

from there. i duck

the first swing, but she

catches me flush

with the left.

time for a massage

feeling achy and sore

from working so hard,

i go for a massage

at the local

parlor. they slide

a menu in front of me

with pictures of various

women and men.

American, Russians, Asians.

i pick out my masseuse.

and put my finger on her photo.

what about her, i ask.

is she available.

she's a tiny Thai girl with muscles.

oh, really, Angel?

are you sure you want her,

the girl

at the desk says.

yes, i tell her. i want her.

we have to warn you,

she almost killed someone last

week by rubbing the heel

of her foot into a guy's

neck, then digging her elbow

into his kidney, which

he lost.

it's okay, i tell her.

i'm not scared. do i have

a safe word.

yes, they say. yell stop,

and push the red button

on the massage table,

we'll try to stop her,

but once she gets started,

we can't promise you

anything.

five hard boiled eggs

i hear what

i think is gunfire in the house.

cautiously

i tip toe up the stairs

with my

Harmon Killebrew bat

i've had since

grade school.

i peek around the corner,

then see

an egg fly through the air

from the kitchen.

it explodes as it

hits the ceiling, i've left

the burner on,

and the water is all gone.

eggs are flying

everywhere.

extending the marriage

would i still

be married to her 

if she knew

how to cook

anything other than

a six ounce slab of dry

farmed salmon?

kale on the side.

no.

but maybe i would have

stuck around

a little bit longer

with an occasional

pot of dumplings

and beef stew,

chocolate cake for dessert,

but just a week

or two.

i'm a little bit sorry

when i used

to buy flowers,

apology flowers,

i'd pick a bunch

that said i'm sorry,

but not

so sorry that i'd splurge

on a dozen

red roses from the town

florist.

i'd go broke if i went

in that direction.

instead

i'd go for the mixed

bouquet

from the grocery

store. daisies and what not,

the kind of flowers

you see in an uncut field,

with the petals about

to fall off.

but it was the thought

that counted,

i thought.

get out while you can

we were good boys

and bad boys

in the old

neighborhood.

growing up side by side

in brick duplexes

along the border

of D.C. and Maryland,

just across from

Southern Avenue,

now Martin Luther King.

we were mostly

poor white kids

from divorced homes.

our fathers were in the Navy,

our mothers

waitresses.

some of us went to jail, some

to law

school or became

soldiers in the Vietnam war.

some became

policemen

or doctors, vagrants,

rebels without a cause.

while others struggled with

drink and drugs.

addictions and bad decisions,

never getting free.

stuck with nowhere to go.

you had to get out

the first chance you had

before that happened.

you never forget your first love

she was a beauty in her day.

the gleam

of chrome,

the emerald paint,

how it shone.

white wall tires.

it was 1970.

the smell of pleated

seats, the roar of the engine.

the glass packs

and baby moons.

the dual exhaust.

the cowl

on the hood.

the dice hanging from

the mirror.

the radio on.

she was a beauty.

every year to the eastern shore.

how she rolled

smoothly, mile

after mile.

what was there about her

not to adore?

the scratch off card

there is hope

in the Safeway scratch off card

from the machines

at the front of the store.

five, ten or twenty dollars

may give you the dream,

the pot of gold

at the end of the rainbow.

redemption at last.

finally all your troubles will

come to an end.

the winning ticket will

be your ticket to be the person

you've spent a lifetime

trying to become.

four double rolls of wallpaper

the job

is so far off the map

in Calvert County,

that

the screen says

we have no idea where

this house is, followed

by question marks,

and sad faced emojis.

we suggest you

make a u-turn and go

home.

how badly do you really

need five hundred

dollars?

you're driving two

hours one way for a

wallpaper job? dude.

in the dog house again

i get on the bad

side

of the condo board president,

Judy.

i never should have called

her a Nazi,

or asked her how

hard would it be for you

to be nice.

now, i'll never get that 

dead bush removed

from the front

of my house.

i'm in the dog house

for sure.

another sin to confess

don't touch

your mother says,

as you stare at the apple pie

warming

on the sill.

the steam still rising,

and yet, you can't

resist.

in goes your finger

as you muffle

your cry.

another sin to

confess come Sunday.

the memories all boxed

it's a fog

that we drift away in.

old

friends, getting older.

the ghosts

are still alive

and yet

transparent

as they fall off the face

of our lives.

names

and places.

the memories all boxed

and ready

to go.

planting flowers

we're all a little crazy.

a little nuts

these days,

careful with what's out

there in the world.

dealing with

insanity at every turn.

we feel like a ticking

bomb at times

about to go off.

we grumble beneath

our breath.

shake our heads at 

the chaos, but paste

a smile on our face,

plant flowers in the garden,

and press on.

the chipped cup

i realize

the cup is chipped.

but

i'm very sentimental

about it.

a favored cup

of mine

when it's time for tea

or coffee.

i've had it forever.

it was given to me

one year

as a gift. something

from the heart.

how can i dispose

of something given

in love, though for

the life of me i

can't remember what

her name was.

the entrepreneur

she took

her yoga class to Costa Rica,

but two

of her students

were bitten

by wild monkeys,

and died.

it put a damper on the whole

namaste

thing she was selling.

so now she's

back to crushing

grapes

in her bathtub and

making her own

wine.

ironically or not,

there's a monkey on

the label

swinging on a vine.

the discovery

i drove

her to the doctor

to have a tiny lump removed

from her breast.

i found it one

day in the middle

of making love.

as i was sitting in 

the hospital waiting room

for her

to come out, her ex

husband showed up

and her married boyfriend

of nine years.

together we all

sat in the waiting

room, nervously tapping

our feet, waiting

for her to come back

out, groggy, but

relieved.

she didn't know who

to kiss first,

the ex-husband, the secret

married boyfriend

or her fiancé, me.

who he really is

my neighbor

is a part time clown

when the circus

comes to town.

during the day, his real

job is an accountant

with a law firm,

grey suits and a frown,

but during the weekends

he puts on the make up

the clown costume

with floppy shoes

and an orange wig like Bozo.

i see him get into his car

in the morning.

with the painted smile

on his gooey white face.

he waves, then shoots

a stream of water at me

from the flower on his

lapel. i think that this

is who he really is.

you should have that looked at

as we get

older

we look for things on our

bodies.

new things

on our skin.

we laid out for so

many years

in the boiling sun

with oils and a

reflecting tin.

a lump, a bump, a mole,

something

that wasn't there yesterday.

is it black

or red, brown?

is it growing?

does it itch?

we are Sherlock Holmes

now

going on the internet

to research

the possible end 

of our lives.

she seemed normal when i first met her

she got another cat

to keep

the first cat

company, but they fought,

so she got

two more, then another

that had

six kittens.

i ask her why bother

with boxes

anymore,

just spread all the sand

out on the floor and

why does it

smell like vinegar in here?

you should really have

those scratches 

looked at.

they look infected.

and maybe get an exterminator

in here.

the fleas are everywhere.

until sleep puts him down

the rain

will keep him in

today.

keep him near the roll

away bar.

i can see him

now

cutting limes

for the day.

the clear long bottles

of vodka

and gin

waiting patiently

to be poured.

he'll call me around

three

in the afternoon and ask

what i'm up to.

he'll talk about the loves

lost,

he'll talk about

money

and the world.

i'll listen to the ice

in his nearly empty glass

rumble around.

eventually i'll tell him

that i have to go,

but i won't,

i'll sit and listen more.

i'll listen because he

has no one else,

i'll listen until sleep

puts him down.

why ruin things

i won't say

what i need to say.

i'll save it.

i'll tuck it away

in a drawer, a pocket.

it's so nice out,

not a cloud

in the sky.

why ruin things.

excommunicated

as she

sat, with her shiny

black apron

on, tight around her waist,

home from work,

the tips

she made stacked

on the table

in rows for each child's

lunch the next day.

she opened the letter

from the church,

from the Bishop of the diocese.

she was being excommunicated

for getting a divorce.

and as he wiped the tears

off her face,

she told us

no need to go to church

anymore,

but we went anyway.

there was always enough

it was comfort

food.

pillows of dumplings

in a brown

stew.

the stars

of peas

and onions glistening

within

the steam

of broth.

diced potatoes.

bread and  butter,

milk.

you mother at the wheel,

as always,

with her wooden spoon,

somehow making

sure there was enough.

the writing class

i do miss

the long night sessions

of writing class.

the group of thirty of so

young and old

students

practicing their craft.

the schooled

and the unread

together in a circle.

poetry and fiction,

some brilliant, some a first

small step, but

all with a story to tell.

not seeking

fame or fortune,

just wanting to heard,

to be read.

it'll find you

there are

limitations, a weak link

in our

chain.

the Achille's

heel

if you may.

no need to find it,

it'll 

find you.

the clown car

as a child

you wondered about the clown

car.

how did they get

so many clowns in there

at once.

one two three,

four and five,

wait, here comes one more,

and another.

we're they good friends?

these circus clowns,

all bent inside the tiny car,

or did they

hate each other, with elbows

and knees

akimbo. a foot

against a cheek or chin?

who ate garlic today?

who didn't shave?

who stepped into what 

the elephant left in the yard?

the oatmeal raisin cookie

she finds

the fat vein in my arm,

blue and long, then sticks

the needle in.

she's drawing

out a pint of blood

for safe keeping.

putting it in the bank

in case i ever need it again.

when it's over,

the blood drained,

she asks me,  as if i'm a child,

if everything is okay.

i say yes, then she hands

me an oatmeal cookie

with raisins.

i hate raisins, but i eat

it anyway.

though hardly a fair trade.

the bending of trees

instead

of discussing current events,

politics

and the nonsense

of woke

cultural,

we pretend to get along.

we talk weather,

and box scores.

we point out the window

at the bend of

the trees,

we ask each other what

that cloud looks like.

we talk food,

and drink.

we're no longer true

friends, agreeing to disagree,

we're strangers, 

acquaintances, now

forty years in.

the same old song

we argue

late into the night.

the dancing is over.

we are on

the same song, 

with the needle

skipping

at the same line,

at the same

scratched point.

it's obvious what's

going on here,

though neither can summon

up the courage

to turn off the music,

to say

goodbye.

the greatest fear of all

is there a greater

fear

in this 21st century

than

losing your cell phone,

or having it

die in your trembling

hand?

the battery

and reception showing

one bar.

the charger

left at home.

i don't think so.

not yet, but soon

too cool

to sit out back, the spiders

have been

busy all night.

their webs hang long

and wet

from side to side.

i'll wait until

the sun is higher,

then take

my book, my broom

to sweep clear

the table

and chairs.

bring coffee. not yet,

but soon.

duct tape decorating

to shake

things up, my mother would

rearrange the furniture.

drag

the broken chair to another

corner,

buy a new sheet

to cover the rips

and tears

in the sofa.

she'd take the picture

of a boat

from one wall

and hang it on another.

she'd wax the floor

on her hands

and knees.

wrap adhesive tape around the frayed

lamp cord.

maybe touch up

the walls with an old

gallon of paint,

not quite the same color.

she'd tape a piece of cardboard

over the bb gun hole

in the window

and take a hammer

to the hinge

of the unclosed screen door.

she might gather a bunch

of daisies from

the yard

and place them in a glass

for the center of the table.

she did what she could,

despite us.

the burning bush

the roots are too

deep

for this shovel and pair

of clippers

to remove the dead shrub.

it won't budge.

we need a back hoe

to dig

this up.

the dead bush

in the yard, grey and brown.

lifeless,

not a bird or bee

finding

it worthy of calling

it home.

where's Moses

when you need him?

i know that sound

i know

that sound. your tired

sigh, and that

one too.

you

coming up the stairs,

shoe

after shoe.

the long day

at end, the long night

about

to begin.

set in our ways

are we set

in our ways, with drink

and food,

what time

we settle in for bed,

what time

we rise?

are we safe

with the clothes we

choose

the furniture

we sit on,

what we put inside

our head.

what book, what song,

what movie

we watch

and let in. 

yes and yes.

there is quiet joy

in allowing what's old

to be new again.

the coin collectors

as she slid

the 1927 mercury dime into

the slot,

finishing the book,

then the buffalo

nickel into the dark

blue

coin holder.

she said, let me see your

collection now.

i opened it. mine,

it was empty.

the ice cream truck, i told

her.

nutty buddy

was my downfall

whenever i heard the bells

chime.