unnamed sources

who are these

unnamed sources, these off

the record

people

who give you

the inside scoop,

telling you the truth,

at last?

who are these whistle blowers

who don't

want to be known,

who have

their names redacted on

the official

forms?

why did it take so long

for them to spill

the beans, for them to act?

the future is now

in the future,

you won't carry money,

or cards,

or checks.

you'll put your eye

up against

the scanner

and the invisible brain

of technology

will do the rest.

we won't have to think,

or leave the house

much.

we won't need a husband

or a wife,

to have sex.

there will be no need

to talk,

because everyone will know

our thoughts

before we say them.

food will be injected

into our necks.

books will

enter our ears without

reading.

everything will be known,

nothing

will be unlearned.

the world will be at peace

as everyone will

have everything they need.

only a miracle

can save us from this fate.

they're already at work

you sigh

as you see up ahead the man

in an orange

vest holding up a stop sign.

traffic is backed up

in all directions.

the striped barrels

are everywhere.

tractors,

and plows.

in slow motion the men

with their shovels

move about,

tossing dirt and rock 

to the side of the road.

gravity seems to be heavier

on them.

they're in no hurry,

they've punched the clock.

they're already at work,

just seven hours

left to go.

now they comb his hair

with this diagnosis,

he's past

politics. 

past worrying about things

he has no

control over.

now it's about

getting down

the stairs after sitting

in a tub

of warm water

until it's cold.

will the son be there,

the daughters,

the ex-wife

with her guilt

now combing his

thinning hair.

he knows what this

is all about,

but doesn't care.

i want something

i want something.

i long

for it.

i really do. it feels like

it's near,

not too far

out of reach. i can almost

feel it in

my hand,

taste it in my mouth.

i want something.

i want it badly.

it'll put a bow on the whole deal.

i think it's right around

the corner,

but i just wish i knew

what it was.

why can't i throw out that bottle of ranch dressing?

at some point

i will reach into the refrigerator

door

and throw

away

that bottle of ranch dressing.

once used.

i'll toss

out those old

soggy asparagus stalks

and onions

gone bad.

maybe that ketchup bottle

too,

the one with a quarter inch

of sauce

at the bottom.

and what about the freezer.

what the hell

is going on up there?

all those unmarked

and permanently frozen

bags of food.

an existential threat to democracy

you hear

this phrase a lot lately from

politicians

on both sides of the aisle.

it's a handy

catchphrase

when a microphone

is stuck into

their faces by

persistent newsmen

bemoaning

the rise or fall of the next

anointed presidential

king.

if he or she is elected,

they scream,

it represents

an existential threat to democracy.

whatever that means.

but they are certain that

the world as we know it

will end.

you have to love the craziness

of it all.

the hyperventilating

hyperboles.

it takes your mind

off this heat

wave we're having.

i think it's due time

for another pina colada

and to jump into the pool

again.

you aren't one of them

beware

of those who monogram

their towels.

their

shirts and linen.

their cups

and saucers.

beware of the yearly

family photos

sent in the mail.

the oil

painting of the clan

above the mantle.

beware of Biff and Missy,

dressed in white

at the tennis court,

they want to

kill you.

you aren't one of them.

you've gone way too far

once you

have the nice car,

the Benz,

or Porsche,

or the penthouse view,

once you feel the hotel

sheets

upon your skin

at the Waldorf, or

nibble on caviar,

or sip on French

wine

as you stretch your body out

on a white beach,

at some exotic locale,

it's hard

to go back.

what used to be

seems impossible.

you've gone way too far.

before the next new day begins

it's the roof

where we go to in the city,

at the end

of the day

when the heat has finally

died down

we have our chairs up there,

we take our

drinks

and stare out across

the canyons

of buildings.

we can see all the way

to the Hudson,

to the bay,

to the ocean.

the stars will come out

at some point.

we'll take each other's hand.

we may even

kiss, before going back

down to our

apartment

and make love, before the

next new day

begins.

the fertility dance

my mother smoked

cigarettes

for a while.

pall malls in the red packet/

seven kids and a wayward

husband will

do that to you.

but she didn't drink.

which was a good thing.

one glass of

wine and she was dancing

around the room

like a gypsy

doing a fertility dance.

another baby was to follow.

sometimes she'd blow smoke

rings out of her

mouth to amuse us.

but then she quit

smoking,

she had no choice once

the husband left

and the money ran out.

the lost doll

it's a girl's

doll, plastic with unclosing

blue eyes

that washes up

on the shore.

an arm

is missing, a leg too.

the clothing is torn

as if 

a castaway.

but the wiry

hair is all there.

the grin

on the baby's face

holds no concern.

the fat

cheeks still fat.

it's heavy with water
and what

looks like a small crab

nestled

in the belly of the pinkish

hard skin.

there's so much to wonder

about now.

who's doll,

and in what ocean,

off what boat did some

little girl

drop it in. i think i'll

leave it for now.

not so carefree and brave afterall

i understand

shyness,

the inability to stand in front

of people

you don't know

and make a speech.

the dry throat,

the mumbling of words,

the sweat

and fear of something

you can't quite explain.

what's the worst that can

happen though?

maybe it's being

found out,

being exposed as being

not the person

you claim to be.

confident and clever,

brave

and carefree.

yes, things are that bad

are things

really that bad? haven't

we always

had some plague of some

sort

wiping out

the weakest of us?

the mushroom cloud

hanging

over our heads with

some tyrants finger

on the button.

hasn't the earth always

been 

nearly destroyed by a passing

asteroid,

by volcanoes, by floods,

by fire

and ice?

come over here and sit

next to me

and

try not to think about

it too much.

the sun is out, we have coffee.

birds are chirping.

it's nice.

morning joe

do they have

pillow talk, do they discuss

the fate

of the world

when he returns

from his fourth trip to the bathroom?

do they wake

up and smell the coffee,

as he puts on his slippers

and wipes

the sand from his eyes

and asks

what day is this?

does she help

him into the shower,

securing the bathmat down,

so that he doesn't slip.

and helps

him with the nozzles

for the water?

too hot, too cold? she asks.

don't forget,

today is that NATO meeting

at ten.

the leaders

from Europe.

France, Germany, 

and the others will all be there.

i wrote down all

their names.

i'll leave you a list.

keep it sharpened

i haven't used

the long yellow number two

pencil

in ages.

it sits in the little trough

on the desk

holding pens

and coins,

what nots,

paper clips,

but i keep it sharpened.

you never

know when you might need

it next.

i admit it, i'm annoying

i love

irony and sarcasm.

cryptic

words.

sly innuendoes.

though it annoys others,

and makes

them not want

to be around me.

the fact

that i lived on a street

called

Pleasure Cove Court

for the worst

ten years of my

life somehow amuses me,

or that i married

someone

with the license plate

peace at home

with rosary

beads hung

from her rearview mirror

while sleeping

with another man,

is rich with ironic overtones.

you can't make

this stuff.

reality is so much more

interesting

than fiction.

the hours are full of it.

the magic of red wine

there is that subtle

feeling

of wisdom,

smart words

and thoughts

seem to flow out

from under

that warm glow of

red wine.

you're suddenly a poet

and a philosopher.

all seems right

with the world.

the glass

tilted just so.

you savor the rich

pinot noir, as you

converse in the candlelight.

angelic music

falls from above.

you even reach over

to take her hand

in yours.

it feels magical,

the start of something

wonderful

until your nose starts

running

and the sneezing begins.

just one night

for the sake

of the marriage, for the child,

for peace

and good will,

i checked into a motel

on route one

to get away for a while.

three days, three nights

away from

home, as if that would

solve everything.

and as i lay there

on the stiff mattress,

the first night, listening

to the man coughing

next door, through

the thin walls, smelling

the cigarette smoke

through the vents.

his television on. i stared

at the walls.

the painting of George

Washington crossing

the Delaware.

poorly painted, poorly

drawn.

i packed up and went home.

the hell with it all.

court date

i see that the unruly

kid next

door,

full of pins and needles,

tattoos and scars

has cut his hair, and is wearing

a new suit.

cheap, but still

a suit

with a clean white

shirt

and a tie, though

with boots unpolished.

court date has arrived,

his mother looks tired

and exhausted

as she gets

in the car to drive.

the thrill is gone

three

days later, someone,

nearby

is still setting off fireworks

in the middle of the night.

the last

i'm sure

of a pile they hauled up

from north

Carolina

in the trunk of their car.

the patriotism that they

show

is admirable.

scholars,

i'm sure of the declaration

of independence

and constitution.

but i need some sleep,

the thrill is gone.

pull the lever and ignore the smell

it's the middle vote,

the undecided

independent voters that

the left and right

worry about.

how can we get them

on board

and vote for our guy?

so it's time to kiss some

babies,

hug a few old ladies,

go sing in a church,

wave whatever flag you carry,

go to an army base,

and a pride march,

buy a vegan raisin muffin

at a bake sale.

please, vote for our man,

just pull the lever

and ignore the smell.

how to sell a house

whatever changes

or improvements you do to a house,

the next

owner

will gut it

and change everything.

the new this,

the new that.

sod in the yard.

rose bushes and flowers.

a baked loaf

of bread in the oven.

no.

it doesn't matter much.

just paint the walls,

do the floors

and hire someone to do

a deep clean.

hammer a sign into the yard

and walk away.

revisiting the pear tree

occasionally

i'm at the light next to the house

we painted

in 1977.

John and I.

seems like forever and yet

like yesterday

as well.

the pear tree is still 

in the yard.

full of fat green fruit.

reaching from

our ladders

we ate so many pears

off that tree

that we got sick and missed

the next day of work.

no pay.

i haven't had a pear

since then,

and neither has John

who recently

passed away.

fifty cents a pair

we'd sit

on the back porch

and polish the old man's shoes.

fifty cents a pair.

heavy black

and brown shoes.

a pair of dress whites

that he wore

with his navy uniform.

we'd open up the kit

and get to it

with our brushes 

and rags,

the oils in tin cans,

buffing the leather

in small circles,

then holding them up

to the sunlight

when the shine

was just right,

at last.

most come back

there is an urge

when one retires, this sudden

persistent

nagging feeling

that one should move.

go south,

go west, go anywhere but

stay here

where you've made

a home.

so you do,

but then quickly return,

after missing

all that you've

become used to.

sit down and bleed

it's okay

to be broken, he once said,

it's how the light

gets in.

E. H.

said a lot of things

i admire

and believe,

especially the one about

how to write.

all you have to do

is sit down

at a typewriter

and bleed.

the day at hand

there are nights

when

you can't sleep, you lie there

and stare

into the shadows,

at the dim red eyes

of the clock.

at the slow twist

of the fan.

you adjust the pillow,

you roll from side

to side.

nothing's wrong.

or is there, you wonder.

pondering

the past and

the day

at hand.

ninety minutes of your life you'll never get back

you get stuck

on a bad movie, lured in

by the three

star review.

but it's too late to stop.

you've already

invested

twenty minutes into the so

called

suspenseful

thriller starring a woman,

blonde and

leggy of course,

wearing her daisy duke

shorts.

lost in the woods with two

nefarious

hill men

after her for reasons

one can figure

out by their bearded

and drooling

mouths.

there's blood, of course,

guns and knives,

a dead cell phone,

twisted ankles,

nights curled up

under a log in the cold

mountain air.

throw in a bad sheriff,

a meth lab

and one sympathetic

outlaw,

and there it is.

that's the plot.

thank God for the fast forward

button

on the remote.

fresh fish daily, let us pray

it's a dive,

but it's what you expected when you pulled

into the gravel

lot nestled between an oriental rug store

and an oversized

green dumpster with

the lid off.

a crab place,

a fish emporium,

Seafood,

the sign

blinks, several letters gone dark.

flounder,

sea bass,

clams and oysters.

crabs, all you can eat

brought out on trays, carried

by young maidens

from southern Maryland.

Pimlico, Salisbury,

Cambridge.

large sheets of rough

construction

paper is laid out on the wooden

tables,

chairs from

a bingo joint no longer

in existence,

are pulled up tight to ketchup

bottles,

vinegar and bent

cutlery. pliers and mallets.

it's a dive place,

but it's what you expected

when you walked

in and felt the warm

breeze of a fan

pushing the summer air

filled with fish,

forward

to a shut door.

fresh fish daily the chalkboard

says,

let us pray.

date night in the city

let's go into the city

tonight,

she says, putting on her favorite

little black dress.

okay.

i tell her,

you check your weather

app

and i'll check the crime

report.

slight chance

of rain, she says, but we

can bring

an umbrella.

hmm, i say staring at my

phone.

northeast and northwest

has had a slew

of carjackings,

assaults

and robberies.

southwest is on fire

with some

sort of protest.

what about southeast, she says.

there's this little

Italian

restaurant near the police

station.

they have an eggplant

dish to die for.

you can put your club

on the wheel,

and we both have pepper

spray. 

so okay, i tell her.

sounds good,

let me call ahead.

the fly swatter

i see a chain

link fence around a long

dirt yard

and i think of home.

i see a broken

window,

a dog going in and out

of the shredded

screen door,

the clunking

of a big black

fan

cooling the steamy

rooms

and i think

of home.

i see the tin foil on

the antennae

of the black and white

tv,

and i think of home.

i smell fried chicken

in the pan,

i hear babies crying

and i think

of home.

i see a fly swatter

hanging on

a nail

on the kitchen wall

and i think of home.

it's a warm

and strangely cozy

feeling,

a feeling i don't mind

at all.

a book to fall asleep to

i stare

at all the books on the shelves.

do i need

a new one,

something to sink

my teeth into,

or should i go back and reread

what was read?

a new story

would be a nice.

a beach read

perhaps.

something easy and light.

something

i can dog ear

a page

and come back to 

once the nap

is over.

shark leg bites

the sharks

are hungry this summer.

it's a feeding frenzy at the local

beaches,

but it's hot

and people want to go into

the water

to cool off.

they weigh the options.

cooling off

and getting a leg bitten

off,

or buying an umbrella

and sitting out

on the sand,

pouring a cold bottle

of water

over their heads.

decisions, decisions.

a beautiful relationship

it's Amazon Prime deal day,

so i go online

and order a humanoid

robotic

machine

made

to look like Heidi Klum

from

back in her runway

days.

completely assembled.

she or it

even has the distinctive

German

accent.

nice touch

and she has almost

imperceptible

human

girl parts.

i just need an assistant

around the house.

light cleaning,

laundry,

a few meals during

the week.

someone to walk the dog.

i could show her/it how

to use the coffee

machine

and put cream cheese on

a toasted bagel.

maybe we could go out

once in a while

to the movies

or dinner.

which would be cheaper

than most

dates, seeing that she doesn't

eat or drink.

just a new lithium battery

once in a while.

i'd get the nag free

model.

the one that wouldn't talk

while you're

watching tv,

or sleeping.

there would be no issues

with her

hogging the bathroom

or using

up all the hot water,

because

she's not human

and water might short

out her electrical circuitry.

there'd be no talk about going

to the grand

canyon,

or to the Madi Gras,

or to Norstrom Rack

for a shoe sale. plus,

there'd be no mother-in-law

wanting to move in,

or kids in trouble

needing money

or another stint in rehab.

but i'd respect her of course.

and call her whatever

pronoun

she'd like me to use.

this could be the start 

of a beautiful relationship.

going duck hunting

my neighbor

is going duck hunting today.

he spent all last

week in the woods

building a blind

so that he can

hide himself.

he has

on his camouflage

outfit,

hat and mask,

gloves, boots.

a knife at his side

and a duck whistle in

his mouth.

he's carrying out his long

barrel

weapons,

canteens full of water,

a cooler

of sandwiches.

he puts his dogs

in back of his truck, then

kisses his wife

goodbye,

she wishes him luck.

tells him

to be careful with

those mean

old ducks. don't let

them bite you.

i want to yell out the window

and tell him

that Safeway sells duck

meat now.

but figure what's the point.

using her freeze gun

the dermatologist

runs

wild with her

freeze gun, blasting little

blemishes

off my

skin,

arms and face first.

roll over she says, take

your shirt

off, your pants

your socks and fruit

of the looms

and let's begin.

do you mind putting some

music on,

i tell her and maybe

fixing me a gin

and tonic.

i think you're rushing

things.

she's not amused.

painting the kitchen orange

i tell her.

you're going to get tired of orange.

don't paint

the whole

kitchen orange,

or lime green.

maybe one wall, if that.

imagine

wearing

an orange sweater every day

for years on end.

after a few weeks,

you'll hate the color orange.

how about a nice

soft white

for the walls, then

put a picture up of oranges

and limes.

maybe put some fruit

in a bowl.

some colorful magnets

on your refrigerator.

try that.

you snooze, you lose

i go through

the lost and found drawer

in my house.

it's full of rings,

jewelry,

bracelets, necklaces,

watches,

religious pins

and bangles.

sunglasses too,

fountain pens and bottles

of old perfume.

make up kits

and hairbrushes,

and even a pair of red

stiletto heels,

hardly used.

funny how no one

ever comes back

to claim things.

i have six umbrellas

sitting by the front door.

i bag it all and take it

down to the pawn

shop.

you snooze, you lose.

how to pay off a house

where in the heck

have you

been, my barista, Bubby, says

to me

when i show up

to buy a cup

of joe.

Grande americano,

i tell him.

room for cream

and one sweet and low.

i remember he says.

so where have you been?

well, i tell him.

i've been saving money.

i figured at five bucks

a cup, times thirty days

in a month, times twelve

months in a year,

times ten years.

instead of coming in here

and paying all that money

i can make coffee at home

and pay off my house

early.

not to mention buying

a scone

and a newspaper every day

too.

oh, we don't sell newspapers

anymore, he says.

but we do have a new

mango

four shot, soy, espresso

with whipped cream

and caramel, it's a

milk shake styled

latte for the summer

with coconut shavings

on top.

the kids are crazy about it.

nine bucks.

the tantrum riots

young

people like to burn things,

wreck

things,

turn cars over when

they don't get their way.

they set the city

on fire.

when

the election is not to their

liking.

when their vote has

no sway.

like babies

they throw a tantrum,

march

and scream, 

their faces turning red

or blue.

it's always been this way.

paying respects

they leave

things

at the marker, the tombstone,

the grave

when paying

respects

on some birthday,

or holiday.

flowers

and pints of brandy.

pictures,

mementoes of some

sort.

but rarely, if ever,

do hands reach

to take them

or reciprocate.

i'd rather forget all about that

strange

how our memories

vary

from person to person.

your brothers

and sisters have completely

different

memories

than you have about growing up.

even friends

diverge

in the stories they recall

when you

were all there in

the same moment.

taking in the same breath 

of air.

funny how

we forget, or choose

to forget

what once was there.

don't drink the water until six tonight

don't drink

the water

the news man says.

it's gone

bad.

it's toxic.

there might be lead in it.

chemicals

from the train

spill.

the nuke plant is leaking

plutonium.

acid rain

has topped off

the reservoir.

don't drink it, don't

take a bath in it,

don't swim.

don't brush your teeth

with it.

don't give any to your pets,

or water

your plants.

but by six tonight

all will

be well.

Judy finds her dream boat

Judy sends

me a photo of her in Las Vegas

standing in the middle

of a fountain.

she's drunk

and says she's

about to get married

to some dude she

met yesterday at a roulette

wheel.

she's been there for two days.

i've never been this much

in love,

she writes.

Omar is my soul mate.

the one and only.

my dream come true.

she sends me a picture

of her hand.

look at the ring he gave me.

i enlarge the photo.

it looks like the pop

top of a beer can.

i ask her,

where her shoes are?

and why is her

dress on

backwards.

i want you to be my

best man,

she says.

can you get here by tonight?

ignore the man behind the curtain

he's old.

okay.

he's had two brain operations.

he stumbles

and falls,

he can't put words

together

and loses his train

of thought.

he's a grandfather.

there's no shame

in any

of this.

the only shame is that

everyone around

him pretends

that all is well.

talking to him like a child.

taking

his hand

so he doesn't fall.

it's elder abuse by 

his handlers and

his loved ones.

and for

what.

for what cause?

oh no, the sky is falling again

people

are scared.

shivering, crying, trembling

with fear.

oh no,

if he's elected again,

he'll reign

like a king.

he'll make us do things

we don't

want to do.

what will it be,

singing the national anthem,

mandatory bathing?

what now.

even the supreme court

is on his

side.

run and hide.

it's the end.

we're all going to die

if we don't

kneel and obey

him.

the sky is falling,

the end is near.

where's

my tonic and gin?

summertime and the living is queasy

they used to call it

summertime.

a long hot stretch in

the middle of the year.

they wrote songs about it.

back of my neck

getting dirty and gritty,

the living is easy,

catfish are jumping, etc.

now it's a heat advisory

is in effect.

please,

don't go out.

hydrate yourself.

which i think means drink

water if you get

thirsty.

if you're old, stay in.

if you're young

or middle aged, stay in.

if you're a little bitty baby,

don't crawl out

into the yard

away from your playpen.

no walking, no biking,

no swimming.

make sure your dog and cat

have sunscreen

on and wear a hat.

please be careful

out there.

find a tub of ice water

and get in.

hunker down, only three

more months until

fall again.

they shoot horses, don't they?

they shoot horses

don't they?

as the movie

title says,

starring Jane Fonda

and Gig

Young,

a film about the depression

and marathon

dancing

for pay.

a brutally sad affair.

with not

a happy ending.

i can't help thinking

of that movie,

after watching

the presidential debate.

now that's interesting

the neighbor

is banging against the shared wall.

i thought

at first that it

was a headboard,

but no,

they aren't that kind of neighbors.

at least in my

addled mind.

the woman

is a librarian,

and the guy drives a 

Good Humor

truck selling ice-cream.

i think he's trying to

hang a picture of

some sort

in the bedroom,

or maybe a mirror,

but the woman must keep

telling him, no.

an inch left.

six inches down. maybe a little

to the right.

how about this other wall.

and then,

the ceiling.

i may have been wrong about

them,

after all.

the paddle and the cross

the nuns,

those damn nuns, 

monitoring

the playground,

in black

and white.

tall and

rounded penguins

standing there

like shadows,

with a paddle in hand,

the crucifix

hanging from

their necks.

it was very disconcerting,

and contradictory.

the paddle

and the cross.

i still haven't quite gotten

over it.

when Ernie reported a UFO

we were playing

kickball

in the street one summer night,

before

the sun went down,

when a green streak

of light flashed across the sky.

we yelled and screamed,

and looked at each other

with amazement. did you see

that? oh my God.

it's an invasion.

Ernie, was the first one in

my mother's house

calling the FBI

to report an alien spacecraft

in the sky.

they took his name

and number, and told him

that they'd be back in touch

soon. thank you for calling,

they told him.

we all went back out

to stare up into the now

full sky of stars,

waiting for another space

ship to arrive.

then our mothers called us

in to go to bed.

that summer Ernie and his

family moved.

never to be seen from again.

sorry to see you go

she sends

me a note, 

a text message actually,

because who really

sends notes anymore?

that would involve,

a pen and a small piece

of paper, which would

have to be folded

over and handed to you,

or slid into your mail

slot on the door.

regardless.

i get the text.

she tells me she can no longer

follow me on

my so called blog slash poetry

site.

i've offended her with

my ramblings,

my off center observations,

often leaning

right.

i can no longer be a part

of your literary

mishmash, posing

as poetry. i'm done, she says.

i've unfollowed you.

she signs her name, but

i still have no clue who

she is.

Robin, Jane, Sally Mae?

is that you.

Beatrice?

oh well. it's a shame.

shark week feeding frenzy

it's shark week,

at last,

and the sharks are happy,

finally

these primordial predators

are getting

some attention this summer.

they've

brushed their teeth,

flossed,

and used whiteners.

they've even

buffed their

fins

to nice sharp point.

they're ready for their closeup,

let the eating

begin.

boardwalk buffet

aficionados, 

waddle forward, come on,

and jump on in.

no one drowned that week

we begged our father

to pull

over and get us ice cream.

he was driving

us to the beach in his 58

chevy impala.

all five kids,

and our mother in the front

seat reading

a photoplay

magazine,

smoking a cigarette,

and ignoring us.

finally he stopped and we all

got out.

being yelled at so as not

step onto

the highway

as cars sped by at ninety

miles an hour.

we each got a cone of

ice cream

then sat in the shade at a

picnic table

while my father went back

to the car

and had a conversation

with my mother who refused

to get out.

she lowered her sunglasses

and just stared at him.

i think she even

blew smoke rings into his face.

then one by one, we all

used the bathroom around back,

before getting into

the car

and moving on.

it was a long week at the beach,

but no one drowned.

you have a very good point there, kind sir

we walk

on eggshells with our political,

or religious

beliefs.

we want to be liked,

to be loved,

we want people to be our

friends,

at least on the surface.

why can't we all just get along,

a great street

philosopher once said.

we curb our

words,

nod politely as if we see

both sides of things.

agreeing to disagree.

then when we leave

we sigh

with relief

shake our heads and say

to ourselves,

yikes,

what dope he or she is.

geeze Marie.

how much to park here in this open space?

i've never parked my car

in Washington D.C.

whether in

northwest,

or Southeast,

without getting a parking ticket.

never.

whether in a low crime

area or the hood,

the signs on the street

are extra wide and extra long

in order to write

the endless instructions on.

the verbiage is indiscernible.

grammar is not used.

nearly every sentence

begins with the word, If.

if Tuesday,

if Sunday.

if it's after 9 pm on a holiday.

if you aren't a resident,

if you are

a resident.

if it's the second Thursday

of the month,

or if it's snowing.

if it's raining, or windy.

if you have a disability

or have ever been convicted

of a crime.

i usually leave a blank

check under the wiper,

with a note telling the meter

lady or man to just fill it out.

independence day suburban style

it's the annual

4th of July pool party.

the driveway is packed

with cars.

hot dogs are on the grill.

burgers

and sausages.

the watermelon is

in the cooler.

Marge made her potato salad.

Jenny

brought a cake,

two cakes actually, with a

frosted fireworks display on top.

kids are running wild.

screaming

madly.

the dogs are out.

Amber is wearing her flag

bikini

and smoking a cigarette

while on her phone.

Journey is on

the stereo, speakers

set about.

the hose is nearby just in

case the house

catches fire when the roman

candles explode.

bandages and Neosporin

are on the window

sill.

sparklers are set fire

and waved about.

big Jim is doing a cannonball

off the diving board.

it never gets old.

putting on the Ritz

i go down to the fancy dan

men's

warehouse

for formal clothing to buy

a tuxedo.

jet black

with a white shirt.

they do some

quick measurements,

then ask me what the occasion

is.

wedding?

party, some glamorous

event

at an embassy or the Kennedy

center?

are you giving a speech

somewhere

in Sweden?

nah,

i say. sometimes i just

want to put

a tuxedo on

and walk about.

shopping, strolling around

the lake,

taking the trash to the curb

on Monday mornings.

that sort of thing.

but hey,

maybe put a carnation 

in the lapel, okay?

if you have any and

a cane and a top hat would

be nice too,

do you have any of those

high gloss shoes?

put a pair of them

in the bag.

size ten please.

she leans way left

she leans

way left, i have a foot

in the right,

but straddle

the middle as best

i can.

i feel that crime is

a problem,

homelessness,

immigration and inflation.

the whole woke culture

is running wild

with blue hair

and gender dysphoria.

while she

feels the president

should get

another term,

he's done an excellent

job,

she exclaims.

just think what he can do

with four more

years.

he may be senile

and incoherent, but deep

inside he's

a really good man.

engine company 42

as kids

we used to hang out at the firehouse.

we'd watch

the trucks

go out,

the men slide down

the pole

in their heavy hats and coats,

gloves

and boots.

the siren would scream

and they

would drop

their chicken legs

and sandwiches

and hop to it.

coming back an hour later

with ashes

on their face.

then they'd go back to eating,

as if nothing

happened.

having donuts and coffee

for dessert.

captain of the cheerleaders

i can still

fit into my cheerleader outfit

that i wore

in high school,

she tells me,

jumping around

with her

frayed pom poms

from back in

the day.

dust and confetti

flying in the air.

i just found it hanging

in the closet.

okay, i tell her. prove it.

put it on,

then do a cartwheel.

a cartwheel?

she says.

yes, or a headstand.

okay, she says. maybe tonight,

when you get

home from work.

great.

i'll be home early,

i tell her.

a ponytail would be nice

too.

thank God for plastic

thank God

for plastic. what would we do

without it?

the world would

literally fall apart

without it.

i look around the room

and there's

nothing that doesn't

have a plastic part

to it.

yes,

whales are choking on empty

water jugs,

seals

and seagulls,

are full of it.

but hey, it's survival of

the fittest.

maybe they have to figure

it out

at some point,

right?

maybe the animal world

needs to have

a talk about the dangers

of plastic

and not try to digest

a peanut butter jar

or an empty

Starbucks cup

floating in the ocean.,

or one of those necessary

plastic stirrers.

don't get up

the old boxer

wants one more fight, one

more

night of hearing

his name called

in the ring.

he wants what he used

have.

the glory of it all.

the crowd shouting his name.

he wants

another knockout,

another win.

but no one

wins against father time.

in the end we

all hear the countdown

as we lie there

in a stupor,

seven, eight, nine...

the truth will prevail?

at times

it may appear as if the cards

are marked,

the dice loaded,

the butcher

has his thumb on

the scale,

but it isn't so.

not always, at least.

perhaps in the end

the truth will win out,

the good

in people will

prevail. i hope

that's true, because

i love these kinds

of fairytales. 

as you drive by

for years you've

seen the old

clapboard white house,

a Sears house,

no less,

with a garden and an old

woman

out there in

her flowered dress, tending

to corn

and berries, peppers

and tomatoes.

her hair

tied back into a knot.

but this year.

the ground is flat, 

a dry patch of

weed filled dirt.

did she die?

the house appears cold

and dark now.

boarded up.

not a light on, no smoke

from the chimney.

it's a surprise, but it shouldn't

be, as you

drive by.

maybe it doesn't matter

will it make

a difference if you stay home

and don't vote?

will

things change or stay

the same

if you do?

it's hard to not take on

the blase

attitude of,

who cares.

what's the point,

you wonder,

as you lie down to sleep

and turn off

the news.

light the fuse

it's a bad

word, but it's the word

you've used

over time.

trapped.

trapped in a bad job,

a bad

marriage, a bad deal,

a bad situation

with no solution

in sight.

the clamp

of claws 

are around your ankle.

you've stepped

into and can't get out.

thankfully,

you have your trusty

matches

and sticks of dynamite

waiting

in your pouch.

the favorite cup

how the rim

of the cup became chipped,

i have no clue.

it's only me

here,

pouring coffee or hot

water

into it, after

boiling on the stove.

how many sips

are there

in a glass cup?

my favorite, no less.

my initial

on the side.

when is over, when

does it

say enough?

thinking less of it

will i remember

the bite,

the nip

of arm

or leg, the pain

of heart

as a loved one

betrays.

of course i will.

i may

think less of it,

but

the scar is there

whenever

i need it to be made

more aware.

all in good time

if you put

your ear to the ground

you'll

hear

the world

going neither

fast

or slow around.

these seasons haven't

changed

much over the years

and neither have

you,

despite joy,

despite fear.

just as soon as summer

approaches,

it too will

be gone,

and winter will appear.

one bite will do

i've seen bags

of apples,

oranges,

grapes,

peppers even, but never

have i seen

a bag of peaches or pears.

one pear or peach

per year

seems to satisfy most

people.

The Sunrise Senior Home

they paint

the building hope yellow with

white trim.

put a sign out front

in floral

script,

everyone is welcome.

there are lots of greenery,

new

and fresh on

the grounds.

flowers grow everywhere

like rainbowed

nests.

a fountain

in the circle driveway

spews a clear

sparkle of water into the air.

there's three meals

per day,

canasta at six pm,

a pickle ball court

in the rear.

a pool to wade in.

the place

has all the airs

of a beginning, not

an end.

a nice slight of hand.

well done.

and

what's that siren i hear?

could it be

another ambulance

approaching slowly

around the bend.

good luck with that chocolate bar

i bite down

on a

dark chocolate bar

with

almonds and my 

brain

says.

oh this is good

but

also bad.

do i toss the rest of it,

or convince

myself to save

it, tuck

it away in the freezer

and make

it a last

a year?

right.

good luck with that.

you got this

tired

of memes, words

of wisdom,

cliches,

wise

sayings passed down

through

the ages

by scholars

and politicians,

teachers

and philosophers.

poets

and priests.

exhausted by

it all,

those trying to guide

our way.

i need a nap

from the world

and to try and figure

it all out

my own way.

you've had a good run, my dear

when are you too old

to work?

to continue on at your job

and be

affective

and efficient.

is leaving your keys

in the door

overnight,

a sign,

when you put your wallet

in the icebox,

or can't finish a sentence,

having lost

your train of thought?

is it

when you

can no longer figure out

how to set

your clocks

at daylights saving time?

when is enough enough?

when will your

loved ones,

gently take you by

the arm

and tell you, 

whispering in your good ear,

you've had

a good run my dear,

but it's time?

given fair warning

we are being warned

on a continual

basis.

the smoke alarm,

the gas gauge,

the oil light,

the data

usage on your phone,

your email

account,

the amber

alert,

the storm alert,

tornadoes

are coming,

floods

and fires.

the pollen count,

which roads are clogged,

which bridge 

is out.

the sky is falling,

the end is near.

stay home,

get under the bed.

don't go out.

finding true love at Kroger's

every few

months or so, i get a text

from Robin,

telling me

how wonderful her life is.

almost free at last,

she says,

as her husband lingers

in hospice.

she tells

me she's in love,

no, she says, not that guy,

or the guy

before that.

this is a new guy,

i met him at Kroger's,

we both reached for the same

hot house tomato

in the bin.

he treats me like a queen.

he adores me,

he worships the ground

i walk on.

he wants to take me to

Wildwood, New Jersey

for the weekend.

money is no object.

he pays for everything.

he opens the car door me.

i mean who does that?

but i'm not getting too excited,

because it's only been

a week.

earth needs women

women, not all,

but most,

can't help themselves. once

a mother

always a mother,

their instincts kick in.

they want to care for you.

to put a Band-Aid

on your wound.

to feed you,

to tuck you in at night.

they want

to make sure

you take the umbrella

when it might

storm.

they help

you button your 

coat up tight. they find

your gloves for you.

they know where

things are.

the aspirin, the thermometer,

the paperclips and staples,

the peanut

butter jar.

they know where you

left your

keys, your watch.

they keep track of your

doctor appointments.

they always lock

the doors.

and this is just the short list.

more to come

i'm sure.

catching forty winks

i can sleep

anywhere if given the chance.

on a plane,

a bus,

the train.

i can fall asleep on a park

bench.

on the floor.

on the ground

in the great outdoors.

in the rain,

or in a snowbank.

i can fall asleep

in a chair

at the DMV.

at school.

in church at high mass.

at weddings,

at funerals,

at parties.

give me a shoulder

to lean against

and i can fall asleep

nearly anywhere,

especially

if you're there.

lying eyes

it's hard to quit,

hard to step down when

the bones

get old,

when the feet fail,

when the mind

is slow.

it's hard to say no,

no more

can i do what i used to do.

it's hard to set

sail.

especially when those

around you lie,

and say

all is well.

biding time at the party

you could

see and feel those that were just

like you

in a room full

of people, at a party.

the ones

in the chair, against the wall.

leaning into

shadows,

observing.

not dancing, not having

exaggerated

conversations, or

engaged in small talk.

like you,

they were watching what

others do,

sipping their drinks,

biding time,

checking their

watches,

keeping an eye on the exit,

waiting for the right

moment

to go through.

with sharpened scissors

letting

go is hard. letting go

of children,

of friends,

of jobs.

it's not easy in cutting

the strings

and moving on.

but it must be done.

for your sake

and theirs.

get the scissors out,

and cut,

don't look back.

move on.

poker on Saturday night

we played

cards

long into the night.

there was

drinking.

laughing, arguing.

it was for small change

mostly,

rarely did you see

a dollar bill

or a five

go into the pot.

we were young, unmarried.

we smoked

cigars

and played music.

we talked

big talk, talked women

and sports,

we pondered

what tomorrow might bring.

we weren't even out

of the starter blocks

with life.

we played cards.

and in looking back,

i can say

with a straight face that

nothing has ever been as

fun as those nights.

the rowdy bluejay

i've never

seen

so many birds in my life

on the fence

in the back yard.

black, red, yellow,

blue.

they're waiting for me to put

more seed

into the bird feeder.

they're fluttering their wings

and making

a racket with

their individual

chirping.

i open the window

and yell out

at them.

i'm coming, be patient, i'll

be down

shortly.

keep your shirts on.

and hey you, yeah you,

Mr. Bluejay,

stop with the fights.

why is this happening?

there's a look

in someone's eyes when they've

lost it.

my mother

had that look,

that mouth half

open

with bewilderment look

when she

was dying

with dementia.

unsure of her step,

her words

coming slow.

her brain in a fog.

it's no laughing matter.

and when

you see someone propped

up

on a stage

in this state of ill health

your heart breaks.

you wonder

where the people are that love

this person,

the doctors.

the friends, the children.

why are they allowing this

go on?

can't they see this?

where's the empathy

and compassion.

is it all about the ego,

all about the win?

with apologies to Tom Waits

it's all

about making the sale.

persuading

the customer to buy,

to accept the deal.

a vote for

me

is a vote for good times

and prosperity.

we can win this election.

so step right up

and pull

the lever.

you can drive it off

the lot today.

no salesman will visit

your home.

the quality goes in before

the name goes on.

batteries not included.

it's the only

product you will ever need.

it's a job,

it's a friend.

if not satisfied return

all useable

parts for a partial

refund.

one size fits all.

all work

guaranteed.

we can't do it without you.

going out of business.

going out of business sale.

one size fits all.

vote for me,

vote often, or don't vote at all.

open all night.

come one, come on down,

come all.

the gut tells you everything

the intuition

is

mostly good, the strong

hunch,

the ability

to read the room,

the stars,

to understand what

lies between

the lines,

said or unsaid.

the gut being your true

brain.

you know what

lies ahead.

all of it is good and well,

though exhausting.

sometimes

you want to turn

it off,

to give

the spider sense

a rest. not

hear that voice inside

your head.

you want to hit the button

and

just be like everyone else.

surprised.

resistance is futile

sometimes you

wake up

and you need something sweet

and cold.

it's a desire,

a longing.

you can't shake.

temptation

has a hold on you.

at some point

before the day is over

you just know

you're going

to be licking a scoop

of rocky road

on a sugar cone.

resistance is futile.

dear Joe

run into

the light. it's okay.

don't fear

the reaper.

there's no shame

in getting old, to be

that cookie

crumbling in a glass

of milk.

don't resist

the inevitable. embrace

your old age,

be thankful

for the good years,

those

cognitive years,

those years when you

were fleet of foot.

when the world was

your oyster.

don't fight

the last stage,

the dying light.

you can't stop what's 

coming.

and sometimes

it's already here.

dear Joe,

it's okay, it's alright.

down into the hole

be careful

what you google.

you

won't just

fall down

into that rabbit hole,

you will

be devoured and spit

out

in a short five or six

hours.

idle hands are truly

the devil's

workshop.

a lot of what ifs along the way

a life

is full of what ifs.

the right turn

instead of the left.

the girl

next door, the job

not taken.

the move you never

made to LA.

the job

you took.

the house you bought.

that oyster

you shouldn't

have eaten,

but ate.

oh my God, teaching the Bible in school?

the nerve

of some schools actually

wanting

to talk about

God or faith,

or the Ten Commandments.

how dare they

try to introduce

morals

and character into small

children.

what's the world coming

to?

what if my three year

old wants

to be gay?

this will break his little

heart in two.

my new Singer sewing machine

i can't find

a shirt

or a pair of pants

or coat

that doesn't have someone

else's name

on it,

stitched into

the sleeve

or back,

or front.

i'm a billboard

for Calvin,

for Tommy, for Nike,

for North face,

or Columbia.

that's why i shop

at Target

from now on., or attempt

to make

my own.

stay straight until you get to the water tower

i never worked

at a gas station when i was a teenager.

but it wasn't

because i couldn't

pump gas,

or check the oil, or wipe

windshields, no.

it was none of that,

it was because i was bad

at giving directions.

i'd ask people

if they knew where the water

tower was,

or the old mill,

or the fork

in the road.

when you see a pasture

full of cows,

turn left.

after an hour or so, they'd be

back yelling at me

for sending them

in an endless circle, 

needing even more gas

to get where they were 

headed.

repair the fence

i go down

to where the fence

needs

mending, the wire torn

away,

nails rusted,

the post leaning.

the fence

is important to me.

it keeps

things in,

keep things out.

i've been lazy with

the mending

as has been pointed

out so

often with the choices

i've made.

the presidential debate

finally

the two presidential candidates

face each

other face to face.

with moderators

holding

the mute button

in case something gets said

that shouldn't

be said.

censorship

at its best.

but then within the first

five minutes, the larger

man,

with the orange

hair, starts jumping

up and down at the podium,

stomping his feet,

trying to shake

the stage,

trying to get the older

half-awake man to tip over.

which works.

crash, boom, bang.

time for a commercial

break.

summer of 73

when

i finally cut my hair,

it had grown

long,

way past my shoulders.

parted in the middle

like Pocahantas

on the butter

box.

i was

a product of the times.

a faux

revolutionary,

just playing along.

but

i needed a job,

so i took the headband

off and

went to the barber shop

where old Joe
took out his shears

and made quick

business of it all.

as the locks fell

to the floor

i suddenly realized 

that making money,

and surviving

was more important

than

some idealistic cause.

do you want to hold my baby?

the neighbor,

friendly as all get out,

excited about

her newborn child,

asks

me if i'd like to hold her baby.

apparently

everyone

she runs into wants to hold

her baby.

so it's natural for her

to ask me.

i'm taken aback,

to say the least.

i haven't held a baby

in over thirty-five years.

what if i dropped her baby?

what if the

baby threw up,

or suddenly

filled it's diaper with

you know what?

maybe later, i tell her.

plus, all my friends

call me butterfingers,

by the way.

but i can see the disappointment

on her face.

our relationship

has never been the same

since then.

their motherly ways

the doctor's office

sends me

an email, then a text, then

calls.

robotically.

will i be there today

at 2:40?

press yes

to confirm your appointment.

would you like

to do

express check in?

if so,

enter your ID number,

credit card,

birthdate

and mother's maiden

name. or

do you want to reschedule

again?

they're very motherly

in their

corporate

and chilly way.

the gradual wake up

i tap

the screen gently.

i'm not angry or disappointed

i understand

the slow

buffering.

the gradual

warm up

of machine and man.

the power went out in the middle

of the night.

nearly

all the clocks are wrong,

even the one

inside of me.

lights were left on.

the television too.

this will take some time

to wake up.

but i have time.

that i have plenty

of, at least this morning.

we need more guilt

we need guilt.

remorse

and regret.

we need to feel bad,

to feel

sorry,

to ask for forgiveness,

we need to have

the urge

to pay our debts.

accepting penance

in order to move on.

we need

to retract our words,

to apologize

for deeds done,

words said.

we need guilt, or else,

we're in a world 

without

morals, we're just

like the rest.

pay no never mind

the best

advice is to ignore,

to move on, to block delete,

disappear

and pay

no never mind

to the person who

trolls.

scrape

the barnacle off

and press on.

fly away

and be gone.

it's winning

it has the height of a tree.

but is it?

i thought it was

a bush

of some sort.

perhaps a weed.

full and thick with leaves.

it goes in all directions.

sturdy

despite how far i cut

it down

each year.

to the bone, with

inches

just above the ground.

but

it has a mind of its own

apparently.

we're not a war,

but if we were, i'd say

it's winning.

when the rain stops

when the rain stops,

and i'm walking,

well aware

of the deep puddle,

up ahead,

the black

mirror

holding the light

of a weak sun

trying

to come out.

i step into it,

ankle deep.

the water is cold

and thick.

i stop and let the other

foot go in as well.

i'm a full-grown man,

but my

behavior is that of

a child,

perhaps the age of six.

the seventies notebook

it's a worn notebook,

buried in a bin

with photo

albums.

lined

pages

in a spiral

school boy purchase.

dated,

frayed

and yellowed at the edges.

what

was i thinking that day?

so long ago.

girls of course.

the weather,

the world large.

politics and war.

first poems, first attempts

at putting

undisciplined feelings

on a page.

bending the knee

to each

his cup of tea,

his choice of pleasure,

his food

his drink, 

his preference as

to what, or to whom

he bends

his knee.

try everything at first,

but in the end

it will all come

naturally.

the new yorker poetry

what's the point

of a poem

if no one knows what the hell

you're talking

about?

a puzzle of old words

strewn about

on paper.

dramatic prose

with

mythological references.

ancient history

revisited.

Harvard grad

the bio says, but i have

no clue

what any of it means.

so who cares?

night feeding

strange

creatures, these bats

in the trees,

in the air

as the sun sets.

quietly going about

their lives,

less blind than we'll

ever be.

the leathered

wings spread wide,

soundless

and black,

as we duck

and run inside.

never this young again

she will never

be this young again, 

she thinks to herself,

as the wind

blows

her flowered dress into the air.

never will

i be this

this beautiful,

this alive.

it's early in the day,

as the sun

picks up the blue

in her eyes.

there's no shortage of those

who want her

hand.

no lack of choices

of who to love, 

of who to

let inside.

the last thing that he wrote

as he lies

there, as if in some blissful

slumber,

a midsummer

nap,

they reach into his shirt

pocket

to find a list.

a grocery list

of what he was to buy

before

the day was over.

eggs,

milk, cereal and bread.

detergent.

light bulbs,

and apples.

the mundane

things that keep trains

on time.

it's the last thing that he

wrote

before he died.

not a story

or poem, not the outline

of a joke.

no anecdotes,

or rhymes,

just this.

this grocery list.

just daydreaming a little

sometimes

when you go into a bank,

you look

around

and wonder if you could

rob this particular

branch.

pull a hold up

ala Bonnie and Clyde,

minus Bonnie,

or a getaway car.

there's one security guard,

a Barney Fife kind

of fellow

in the corner.

is that even a real gun

in his holster?

he seems distracted by the lollipop

he's sucking.

there's cameras

of course,

and the plexiglass shielding

the clerks.

from mayhem.

but the door of the giant vault 

is slightly ajar.

hmmmm.

there's a manager

in his windowed office 

with the door

closed, probably writing

up a loan.

could i get away with it?

but how much would

i demand

in my handwritten note?

the only problem is

that i have three accounts here,

savings,

checking, and a retirement

account,

not to mention that they

know me by name.

maybe i should

put this whole idea

on hold.

winter love birds

my father's girlfriend

calls me.

she's crying, or at least i think

she's crying.

i don't hear her blowing

her nose,

which is a true

sign of actual crying.

she's 87.

my father is 96.

her feathers

are ruffled.

she's upset with my father.

she says he's

cold and aloof, angry

and jealous

when he doesn't get his way.

will i ever get

used to it?

will he ever change?

i tell her, no.

but it's your choice to leave,

and your choice

to stay.

there's a reason his

front door

is a revolving door.

the frivolous desires

does the bird

wake

up and wonder what

to do

with his day?

is there a plan,

an itinerary

of some kind, the hours

broken down

with chores

to do,

where to go, what's

to be made

or unmade.

do they make time

for fun,

for frivolous desires

like we do?

fatigue makes wise men of us all

work

will bring you to your senses.

make you

see clearly

what's important

and what isn't.

the long day,

the bloody hands,

the callouses.

the ache in your bones

will set

you free from all

that

is wrong.

the check at the end

of two

weeks,

will save you in

the long haul.

fatigue makes wise men

of us all.

making it yours

i prefer

the possibilities

that an empty room poses.

cleared

of clutter,

the walls bare,

the floors willing to

be shined

or covered. no

hint

of yesterdays

still here.

give me

the glass window

with no adornment.

give me

the future,

not the past.

until the end of time

no one

tells you. no one has the heart

to tell you.

but you

will, 

despite all reason,

you will carry them with

you

until the end

of time.

there is no

denying that.

the Windsor knot

did i need the class

on

quadratic equations, or the one

in biology

where we

cut frogs in two?

did i need to know

about the roman 

empire,

the great wall of China,

Magellan and

Columbus sailing

the ocean blue?

maybe, maybe it's all

for the better,

but changing a tire,

or tying a tie

into a Windsor knot,

or scrambling eggs,

or balancing a checkbook

would have been

great classes too.

a cold glass of clean clear water

the earth

has the same amount of water

in it

as the day

it was born.

no more coming in,

and the rest

comes

down in rain or snow,

sleet

or hail,

to fill the rivers and streams,

the oceans once

more.

there's always been enough,

though

now less pure.

the one that got away

i see the captain

of the boat,

at the wheel, white hair,

white mustache

a blue anchor

cap on his head.

the sun has taken its toll

of him but

he presses on,

the sailor that he is.

he steers the modest

boat

out of the harbor as

he sips on his tonic

and gin.

the sun is rising again.

he has all day

to think about her,

the other woman, the one

that got away.

the Friday night quarrel

it's Friday,

so of course we argue.

it's been a long

week,

we're both tired and hungry.

it's a good fight.

the same old

quarrel,

over old ground,

which will put us in

separate rooms

for the night.

but maybe by Sunday

we'll be back

to normal,

and pretending to be nice.

cruise attire

we agree

on a cruise to the south Pacific,

or maybe

Bermuda,

sailing out of New York.

which

presents a problem

of sorts.

i don't have the wardrobe

for cruising.

no one size fits all

baggy pants,

or shirts

with flowers on them,

no sandals,

or white shorts.

no wide brimmed hat,

or fancy

sunglasses.

i need better

luggage too.

it's early, but i can wait

for the door

to open

at Nordstrom Rack.

they all come calling

the grapevine

is thin,

fragile, barely hanging

on

to the fence,

but you

still get some news from afar.

the illness

of the old

man

and his wandering

ex-wife.

funny how they all come

calling,

at the dimming

of the light.

the reading of the will

we all

at some point sit down with

reality,

and ask ourselves,

who gets it all

when I'm gone.

the wayward child?

estranged and far

away

in body and soul.

a friend,

a lover,

a sibling?

who gets the house,

the cars,

the books and clothes.

who comes

and claims it for themselves?

or do you give

it all to charity,

an orphanage perhaps,

or invent a scholarship

for worthy

students,

attempting to reveal

the world

in poetry and prose?

maybe

a stranger, someone you don't

yet know.

right handed

surprisingly

one hand, one arm is larger

than

the other.

but the legs not so much,

nor the feet,

the ears

are balanced,

the eyes

both can see equally

for near

or far,

but these hands.

one thick, one slender,

they seem

to have a mind of their own.

one small step

accidentally

you crush and destroy

three weeks

of ant work

in the yard. industrious

ants

with the strength

of an insect

Hercules.

you can almost hear them

screaming

at you

from down below

where your

foot just stepped into

their home.

wiping away

their massive tunnel

in the ground.

there's no way you can

make it up

them or

repay them.

you've killed some,

wounded others.

families are destroyed.

there's heartbreak

and dismay.

and now with the sprinkler

on,

so many, sadly,

will drown.

the waking hours

you dream

of water,

neither cold or warm,

massive waves

that roll

and break upon the shore.

you dream

of indigo

seas

of depths

unseen. it's calming

in a strange

way,

this storm

of sky

and ocean.

you're able to surf it

out,

to ride it in,

to swim,

to never drown.

and in the morning you

see hope

in your own life.

fashion advice for global warming

it's 98 degrees

at eight o'clock in the morning

in Maine,

so maybe, just maybe

there is something

to be said about this

global warming thing.

but what's the answer?

how can you get a planet

of so many diverse

people and politics to

agree on anything?

half the world hates the other

half.

so, just suck it up, take

a cold shower,

and have a bowl of ice-cream.

wear white thin

clothing

and sandals,

and a hat.

bikinis and speedos are

optional,

especially in France.

don't Bogart the joint

all the old hippies,

with grey ponytails

and fried brains from smoking

the wacky

weed

for decades

are thrilled that it's nearly

legal now.

no more worries

with the Po Po

pulling you over

or raiding your crib

in your mother's basement.

finally

at last, they say,

putting on a Led Zepplin

record again,

and firing up

the bong.

no more explaining to mom,

that it's the smoke

of a big cigar

you're burning and passing

around.

the 64 Crayola box

give me the primary

box

of colors,

i don't need the box

of 64

crayons

to color this page.

we have too many choices

now,

from food

to knobs

on a drawer to soul

mates.

our brains are scrambled

from trying

to decide

which shirt to wear,

which

pair of underwear

to slip into.

what color should i dye

my hair?

where to live,

where to retire, where

to die. 

so much to choose from.

will it be a

pine box,

or something bronze

and fancy,

cushy inside,

or will you prefer cremation

like a burger on

a briquet burning fire?

when the housekeeper spills the beans

i never should

have given the housekeeper

a glass of wine,

which turned

into two glasses of wine,

and a shot

of tequila.

oh my.

the stories she told me

once she got going,

her shoes off

and her feet propped

up on the coffee table.

the vacuum still plugged

into the wall.

i egged her on.

please Milagro, go on,

go on i told her.

she went through her list

of clients,

former and current, 

one ex-wife and

friends of mine,

even ones that have passed

into the great beyond.

i told her she should

write a book, a memoir

of sorts, but change

the names to protect

the innocent and

the guilty. 

here have another

shot,

this book will be a

goldmine.

where are they now?

we compare

and contrast our lives with others

of similar

ages,

similar pasts.

are they richer

than us, doing better,

do they have

a prettier wife

or more handsome husband.

or have all their

marriages failed?

do they have a house

at the beach?

cape cod perhaps.

are their children

on their own or in jail

or homeless

or on drugs, what kind

of cars do they have,

what does

their 401k look like.

do they have all their hair,

have they grown

fat

and slovenly,

we are such shallow people

at times, pointing

our fingers,

googling the lives

of others. forgive us lord,

for how we do 

love to compare.

heaven is like that

is there anything

more

satisfying and

luxurious than the late

afternoon

summer nap

after a day at the pool?

the fan

above spinning slowly

as you lie

down

on the cool sheets,

the shades

pulled on the windows?

perhaps

heaven is like that,

but with cake and milk

when you

awaken.

can you eat a rooster?

can you

eat

roosters? why are there no

rooster out

restaurants?

no rooster

filet drive thrus.

no boston rooster,

no southern

fried rooster with gravy.

no rooster

wings,

no stuffed rooster for

the holiday.

no rooster nuggets,

or rooster legs.

why has the rooster

been ignored

all these years.

what does the poultry

industry

have to say about this?

why are they hiding

the roosters

from us.

what do the chickens

have to say?

life is slow dying

illness

appears seemingly

out of nowhere,

but it's been lurking in the shadows

waiting

to spring

its claws upon

you

for some time now.

maybe stress and turmoil

has released

it from its tightly

wound cells,

or maybe food of

some sort,

smoke

or drink, a toxic

fume

your lungs found

in the air.

maybe it's your mother's

fault,

some ancient blood

relative

from the era of the black

plague.

who knows these things?

no one.

but you can't stop what's

coming,

once it starts.

we need to spice things up, she says

the wife,

bored apparently

with our long marriage

and pedestrian

love making,

tells me

one day that we

need to mix

it up a little.

so when i come

home from

work the next day

she's wearing a leather

outfit,

standing tall in six

inches of stiletto heels

and holding

a whip,

and a pair of silver handcuffs.

i set my brief

case down

and loosen my tie, then

find a cold

box of Chinese food

in the fridge,

so what's up?

i ask her as i put it

into the microwave.

hopefully

you are, she says,

snapping the whip at me.

the conspiracy

i see a gathering

at the party table

in back of the restaurant.

there's a loud

and animated

conversation. going on.

my lawyer, my therapist,

my doctor,

my dentist, my broker,

my housekeeper

and my ex-wives

and ex-girlfriends.

a dozen or so people

that i know

or have known.

what's going on here?

suddenly they all

go quiet as i walk by.

is there a conspiracy

of some sort going on,

or am i being a little

too sensitive and paranoid?

but i can't escape the feeling

that something

is about to go wrong.

milk bottles

i count

out the empty glass 

milk

bottles,

four in all,

twelve dollars in

return.

i've fallen in love

with milk

again.

see,

i told you going back

is possible.

one bird of a feather

is it true

that birds of a feather

flock

together, she asks me,

is that the reason

i'm alone

here on a Saturday

night?

can it be

that there's no other

birds out there

quite like

me?

a matinee movie and a hip replacement

there's a new kiosk

at the mall

for hip replacements,

shoulders

and knees.

it's a walk up station

next to

Spencer's and Orange

Julius,

close to Annie's Pretzels.

they tell you

to bite on a leather strap

soaked

in whiskey

and then they take out the old

joint and put

a new shiny brass

ball in its place.

you're in and out in a few

hours,

once the local

anesthesia wears off.

you can take in a movie 

while you wait.

the drift of hours

will this hour

drift away

as well, like the last one

and the one

before that.

how long can i stare

out this window

and do almost nothing

but drink tea

and read.

apparently, all day.

every dog will have a bone, i promise

the politicians

are pulling out the stops 

as the election

gets closer.

they are kissing babies,

handing out

free ice-cream

on a hot day.

it's amnesty for millions,

no taxes on tips

for the waiters,

no longer do you have

to pay off

your student loan.

felonies are reduced

to misdemeanors.

there's a chicken in every

pot.

the homeless now have a

luxury apartment

for a home.

and as God

is my witness, i

promise that

every dog in the country,

if i'm elected,

will have a bone.

possessed

it seems

at times that the more passion

they have

for a cause,

or feeling, the more

they are wrong,

they are

less willing to be quiet

and think

it through.

the anger and madness

possesses them,

so it goes on

and on.

the snow and sky

it's hard

to tell when one day ends

and the other

begins.

like

snow

and the sky they're

seamless

on a winters day.

it's just you that brings

color

to the hour,

you

coming up the walk

your red

scarf around you,

your warm body

coming

my way.

i call her buttercup

i call her buttercup

sometimes,

or sweet potato, or sugar plum.

i wrap my

arms around

her and kiss her madly

when i see her,

while she gives me

a peck on the cheek

and calls me

jimmy.

sometimes i feel like we're

not on the same page

emotionally

or physically.

he's ninety-six today

it doesn't seem possible

that he would

live this long

with all the drinking 

and mischief,

the smoking,

the women and brawls.

all those fast cars,

all that bad food

and whiskey.

and yet, here he is

at ninety-six, still 

on the phone, still opening

the door,

his body

a cookie falling apart

in the glass of milk.

his eyes blurred,

his hearing gone.

but the mind saying,

not yet,

not yet.

the game is still on.

i can hold it until morning

when the dog was young,

and he heard

the word

car, or leash

or walk,

he'd be at the door scratching

with his paws

he couldn't wait

to get out there,

run wild

and bark.

but now,

he looks at me with those

old sleepy

eyes and says,

really?

i just went two hours

ago.

trust me, i can

hold it until morning.

pass me the salt

even Hitler

would pass you the salt

if you

were sitting at a table

with him

eating

dinner, she

used

to say in describing despicable

people.

explaining how

despite the casual

politeness

and manners, many people

are dark

and evil inside.

they'll even talk about 

the weather and say things,

like,

it sure is nice outside.

the constant reboot of humanity

there's a reason

the world

doesn't truly change.

yes,

it has in many ways,

the industrial

revolution,

the computer phase,

we're no longer rubbing sticks

together

to make a fire,

of course not,

but in reality we're still

the same.

and what keeps

the world a mess is that

everyone

that learns their lessons,

and gets wisdom

in the process,

dies.

and the next group being

born,

has to start all over

again,

dumb and unwise.

the little black safe

i can't remember

the code

to my safe,

but thankfully i have a key

hidden

somewhere.

the search is on.

all my important documents

are in there.

divorce decrees,

insurance

papers,

car titles

and a few hundred

Bemjamins

in a neat stack.

finally i find the key.

it's on my

key ring.

i need an influx

of cash.

why should anyone care

happy

pride day, the boy says

to me

as he hands

me my

Grande americano.

he has pink hair

woven into

pigtails

and is

wearing

a green tutu with matching

slippers.

i can see the hair

on his chest.

huh?

i say.

what?

happy what?

pride day, he says again.

it's pride

month all month.

every day

we're celebrating

the diversity

in

our genders and sexual

preferences.

oh, i say.

okay. great.

good for you, but

do you mind putting

an extra

shot into my

cup?

it's a little weak.

birds bathing

the yard

is a jungle, and overgrown

square

of green.

vines

and weeds,

but i can still see the grey

statue

on the stone

bird bath.

that's all i really

need to see.

birds bathing

does it

for me.

the lima bean discussion

at the age of ten

i told her

a thousand times, a million times.

i don't like

lima beans.

and what do i see

on my plate.

a big pile of them

next to my

fish sticks. lima beans.

i shake my head

and stare at her.

what? she says.

you don't like lima beans?

this is the first

time i've heard about 

this.

no mom. i don't

like lima beans, can

you please make

a note of it.

the hopeful mistress

my new boyfriend

treats me

like a queen, she tells me over

the phone.

he adores me.

loves me.

worships me. he brings

me flowers,

gifts,

he draws hearts in the sand

when we're at the

beach.

he carves hearts into

trees,

into snow on the windshield

of his car,

with our names inside.

he texts me

almost every night

when he's free from

prying eyes.

he promises, after

the holidays,

when he has time to do

the paperwork,

and files for divorce

from his current wife,

he crosses his heart

and swears

that he'll make me his

bride.