what would you have done differently?

they ask

the candidate if she would

have done

anything differently

if she had been president

during

the last four years

instead of the vp.

oh my she says, rolling her

eyes,

laughing.

oh not really.

i would have done it all

the same way.

so you wouldn't have tried

to lower

prices,

and inflation,

or fund and support

the police,

or close the border

after letting in so many

criminals

onto our streets?

no, no.

we're good.

you'll see, why fix what's

already

broken.

vote for me.

the Maine lighthouse

it is a good memory,

i think

to myself, as i hold the photograph

of the lighthouse

in Maine.

you beside

it, near the rocks

and water,

the wind your hair,

your face

young.

it's a good memory,

one

that you shared.

i wish at times that i had

been there.

in over your head

when

you're in over your head,

and the water

is filling

your nose

and ears,

your lungs,

you flail, you holler

and scream

as best you can

as you begin

to sink,

but nothing

or no one

can save you.

some do it on land

too.

sadly, you're done.

getting the old gang back together

the guys,

the old gang tries to get together,

to reminisce

about our days

playing ball,

when we were young.

and then into middle age.

we had

an unbreakable bond.

we shared

so many hours together

on the field

and court.

but now,

it's hard to meet up.

Howard

wants to know what were

wearing,

Jim, is concerned about

parking,

and if it's going to rain.

before dark

would be nice, says Bill,

awaiting

cataract surgery.

Donnie,

asks if there's wheelchair

access.

and Frank wants to bring all

of his grandchildren.

i suggest maybe a zoom call,

to which Eddie says,

what's that?

doctor evil

i'm afraid of my doctor.

every time

i go for a visit

i'm more injured and sick

than when

i arrived.

he has

a maniacal beside manner,

never

quite looking

you in the eye.

shuffling his feet,

as he dispenses pills

like chicklets

at Halloween.

i try to keep my distance

when he

comes into the room,

as my blood pressure

skyrockets

and my eyes bulge

with fear

and gloom.

as a porpoise floats by

we wake

up

at sunrise,

apparently 

the storm is over. 

the winds have finally

died down.

we tip toe

to the window

and see

a porpoise floating by,

a small

fishing

boat,

and three kids

on surf boards.

we keep

our life preservers on,

which makes

it hard

to move around,

but we're fine.

the power is out, but

we're alive.

the little girl is getting married

my daughter

cautiously approaches me

as i sit

on the porch reading

the paper,

and says,

dad, we need to talk.

she sits down

beside me,

and puts her hand on my

my hand.

i see the ring on her

finger.

she starts to cry.

it's okay, dear, i tell her.

congratulations.

it's about time.

your mother has been wanting

to use your

room for a sewing

room,

for a long long time.

so who's the lucky guy?

Jimmy?

the stockbroker

that you met in your seventh

year in college?

oh, no that ended five

years ago.

it's some dude i met online.

he has a podcast

about

the eco system

and how it's affecting

red wine.

our new best friend

the waiter,

our new

best friend, appears again.

wanting

to know

how everything is, we chew

our first bite of food

and swallow.

we wipe our

lips and tell him everything

is fine.

more water?

he says,

pouring more into

our glasses.

i'll be close

by

if you need anything.

more parmesan cheese

or pepper perhaps?

magically

making

the enormous wood shaker

appear.

maybe just

a sprinkle i tell him.

and you miss?

no, she says.

but i would like some more

bread.

which

he suddenly takes out of

his jacket.

with pads of butter.

i'll be right over there, he says.

and oh,

here's the dessert

menu

for when you're ready.

the chocolate waffle cake

is to die

for. it's my favorite.

you don't have issues

with gluten,

do you?

i reach for my pepper spray,

but she stops

me.

and says. no. not now.

wait until

we leave.

the Mickey Mouse club

it's the media

blitz

as election day

approaches.

i see the candidate on Stern

and the View,

on Colbert.

Kimmel

and Jerry Springer.

next week she's on

Sesame Street,

and then

off to Captain Kangaroo,

before stopping

at the Mickey Mouse

club for

an interview.

she has her note cards

prepared.

there's joy and laughter

in the air.

more degrees than a thermometer

it's not

fine art exactly. but they're framed.

all the degrees

representing

education

at various institutions

and money

spent.

i only owe two hundred

thousand

on tuition,

he tells me. but hopefully

the next president

will erase all of that.

i turn 35 next year and

i've sent my resume out

everywhere.

so it's just a matter of time

before i land

that big job.

i'm sure there's some

company out there that

needs a poet slash

philosopher.

into the second bottle

it's just

wine, she says. the French love

wine.

the Italians,

the Greek.

can you help me with this cork?

i'm having trouble

here.

just one more

glass before

we go.

but we're home, i tell her.

oh really.

i forgot.

okay, yes, i think you're right.

there's the dog,

the cat.

the clock.

good, i think

you've got that cork.

now be a big

boy

and give me another

large pour.

i surrender, good luck with being me

tired from the endless

calls, at last

i allow

the man on the phone to steal my

identity.

i give him

my social security number,

my bank

account numbers,

my address,

my phone numbers.

i give him the names of my

children,

my wife.

my doctor.

i give him my height and weight.

i tell him where

i work,

and how much money

i make.

i give him

my mother's maiden name.

i tell him

where i was born,

where i grew up.

what school i attended.

i tell him

my nickname.

my dog's name.

i give him all the passwords

to everything

on my computer

and phone.

i give him the combination

to my safe,

the name of my first love.

i tell him

where i'll park my car tomorrow

and that i'll

leave the keys

under the seat.

go ahead, i tell him, it's all

yours,

everything.

it's your turn.

i'm so tired of being me.

the contagious word salad

it seems

to be contagious now

as the candidate

goes on and on with each

new friendly

interview.

it's leaked into my own

household.

i ask

my wife why she went

to Williams and Sonoma

and spent

a thousand dollars on

new pots and pans,

and silverware.

and a new coffee maker.

i was raised a middle

class girl,

she tells me.

but, i say.

no, please i'm talking here.

she puts her hand

into my face

and continues.

my mother had to work

to make

money, we didn't have

the government

to rely on like we do now.

we lived in a neighborhood

where

people loved

their lawns.

we didn't have everything

we wanted,

but we had joy.

excuse me, i tell her,

my question was why

did you

spend a thousand dollars

on things

we already have?

i just told you why, she responds.

we weren't poor,

but we weren't rich

either.

we were a middle class

family.

and by the way, have you

noticed

how long the grass is outside?

Luigi's wood fired pizza

when i burn

the top

of my mouth on a bite

of bubbling

pizza,

hot out of Luigi's 

wood burning oven,

the mozzarella sticking

to the skin,

it reminds

me days later, still sore,

of how impatient i've

been.

not just with you,

but with pizza

too.

a row of pink houses

when

you see a pea green house,

after

you make

the turn

then cross the tracks,

then a pink

one

and a blue clapboard,

followed

by yellow,

you know you you've

stumbled

upon

independent thinkers

of a poorer

class,

not by choice, perhaps,

just

hard working

souls

who like to express

themselves.

teaching her how to nap

it was hard

at first,

because she was so energetic,

a go getter

of sorts,

so i had

to introduce

her to the afternoon nap,

teach her

how to do it.

i showed

her how to dim the lights,

turn

off the phone,

pull the shades to make

the room

dark. i convinced her

that it was best to take off all

your clothes too.

you don't want a belt

or tight shirt, loose

undergarments

disturbing you.

of course the nap turned

into other

things too,

which she didn't seem to mind.

and it made

the afternoon

nap that much sweeter

once we were through.

they're all in on it

it's the food

of course.

they don't want to tell you that,

because

it might seem

like they

are in on it, making you

fat

and confused,

dazed.

and addicted

to sugar and salt,

candy and chips.

sodas

and cake.

the doctors too. why

get to the bottom

of your

fat bottom,

when they can just sell

you a pill,

or an injection,

to lose a pound or two.

whistle while you work

you don't

hear people whistling anymore.

tines are too hard.

it's rare with

men or women.

people look at you

like you're crazy

if you go

around whistling

like a bird.

but my uncle

used to whistle. he had

a fabulous

whistle.

he used to whistle

any song

you've heard.

the dogs in the neighborhood

loved him.

but his wife,

i think she had enough

of it.

morning noon

and night.

no one was offended

we had

terms of endearments

for our

friends when we were young.

Johnny

was jumbo

because of his massive

size,

Ernesto was

coffee bean, because

he was as dark as one,

Pat

was pasty, again

because of his skin

color.

Sally was blondie

for her wild

curly locks,

and Georgia

was Mae West for two

obvious reasons.

of course there was

Slim Jim,

and Stumbles,

Pointdexter and Brainiac

who had

an answer for everything.

if you didn't have

a nickname,

you didn't feel loved.

another successful interview

when

someone doesn't' know what

they're

talking

about, they use more

words

than they

need to.

they clutter up their

talk

with nonsense,

going around in a circle,

deflecting

to hide their ignorance,

repeating lines they've

memorized,

until everyone

forgets what

the question was

and then weary,

they move on 

amidst her laughter.

another successful interview

is over.

waiting on Betsy in her yellow bikini

i spent

many days, many summer

hours

lingering

at the pool,

hoping Betsy would show

up

in her yellow

bikini.

i wore

my sunglasses

and Coppertone.

i flexed

and sat

up

staring out across the wide

blue pool.

i'm still waiting now,

but i'm

growing old.

we're all addicts

we don't

think we do, but we all

have addictions

of some sort.

maybe

not drugs,

or alcohol, smoking,

but

there are other things

that melt

our butter

and help us through

the hard nights,

the lost days,

whether

food or sex, or some sort

of bling.

even love

can be an illusion,

a temporary fix

for what's gone wrong

as children.

two blocks left then right

i like

how when you turn a corner

in the city

it's a different

place.

with

different people,

with different

food

to offer.

the music too coming

out of the windows,

the scents

of life.

the language.

from

here, even with the park

not far away,

you have

a different

view.

waiting for love

i see her

standing by the lake.

hands

folded.

pensive. quiet

as she stares out across

the calm

blue water.

what are you doing?

i ask her.

i'm waiting, she says.

for what?

for my ship

to come in, let's

call it love.

i nod and move the grey

hair

from her face.

i get her

a chair.

the racket of dawn

i wake

up before the sun does.

i can

hear every

mode of transportation

that runs

in the world

outside

the window.

cars

and locomotives,

buses

and planes.

anything with a wheel

and an

engine

seems to be engaged.

leaf blowers too.

hedge trimmers.

is that

a trash truck i hear

lifting

the barrels?

the birds

have no chance

on this

autumn day.

and what is that,

a hair dryer in the bathroom?

you too?

the barking dog

i've never

seen

the neighbor's dog,

next door.

but i've listened to it bark.

all day,

all night.

i've never seen it on 

a leash,

or in the yard,

or chasing

a ball.

though i've heard

it scratch

at the doors trying

to escape.

i wonder about this dog.

its life

in a cage.

closed for business

the cemetery

on the hill is closed.

there's

no more room for

the dead.

they are lined

up in narrow

alleys

like the poor are

in skid row.

they've run out of space.

they can

no longer hold

another soul.

let's pray it's different

when we

arrive

at the pearly gates.

why are you biting me?

i stare at the red

welt on

my leg and wonder

why

do the bugs want to bite

us?

mosquitos, bed bugs,

spiders.

an assortment of tiny

crawling

things.

what pleasure

or nourishment

are they getting out

of sinking

their teeth, if they

have teeth,

into our soft skin,

leaving behind

a red

hill that itches.

what's the point?

is it is the salt, the sugar,

the sweat,

that makes them bite us,

over

and over again, only

to be swatted

with the Sunday times,

having their lives

abruptly end.

i need a Sunday car

we use

to peruse the enormous car

lot

and find

a car

to test drive.

the salesman

in a checkered

coat, smoking,

not far behind us.

we had nothing to go on,

but the badge

on the side,

and the color, two or

four door.

six cylinder or eight.

automatic

or a stick on the floor.

but now.

God help us with the variations.

hybrid,

and plug in,

gas or electric.

four wheel, or two.

every country

is represented.

we have nowhere to turn,

to pick one,

other than

going on YouTube.

sweet dreams

i had

the opposite of insomnia

after healing

my wounds, 

learning all the lessons

of a broken

heart.

a master class of wisdom.

i couldn't

stay awake.

i embraced

sleep, the nap, the long

hours between

darkness

and light.

nothing bothered me,

or kept

me up anymore.

it was a wonderful time.

and i thank

you for that. meeting

you was

such luck.

her love of poetry, Neva

i imagine

she's 90 by now and more,

but

i still see her

in front of the class

teaching,

chalk scratching

at the blackboard.

her pocketbook 

around her shoulder,

not yet

set down,

her glasses

steamed

with enthusiasm

as she

tells us what we don't

know,

about sylvia Plath

and sexton,

mark strand

and the immortals of

modern

poets. Larkin

and Ignatow.

confessionals.

though she avoids

Charles Bukowski, who

she can't stand.

the whitsun weddings again

when

i turn the pages of this old

book,

frazzled

and worn,

the binding broken,

i expect

to find another gem

hidden

between

the pages, an unexpected

poem

unread,

waiting just for my

eyes.

i wet my fingers

and turn,

and turn and turn

the yellowed pages,

and at last

there it is,

another one to my

surprise.

the prescription of No

i used to be

a people pleaser, a giver,

a person

who got along

with everyone despite

how i truly felt.

i kept the peace,

compromised,

keeping my thoughts

to myself.

i pretended that

all was well

when it wasn't.

i did so many things

i didn't want to do.

and then,

i discovered the words 

no thank you,

no.

and now i ring it like

a bell.

ding, ding, ding.

no, no, no.

and suddenly,

i'm not so blue.

the martini blur

i've had

the same bottle of vodka now

for two

years.

untouched.

the olives too,

and

the tonic water,

still

screwed tight inside

the bottles.

the apple Schnapp's

as well.

i haven't cracked

ice in ages,

or used

the metal shaker

to construct

a martini. it's probably

the reason

we don't go out

anymore,

i see you in a different

light.

finally

i see you

and me for who we really

are.

my laziness refined

as i yawn

and stretch,

my laziness

does not surprise me.

i knew

i had it in me

for a long

time.

i just needed to refine

it,

polish it,

find the right bed,

or couch

to lie in

and not budge an inch

for almost

the entire day.

in rain or shine.

i embrace this laziness.

it's mine.

the wide river

the water

of time has swept you away.

taken

you to a deeper

place.

for good, it seems.

such is

the nature

of the world. how 

secure

our foundations

did seem,

now ripped and torn

away.

friendships and loves,

you once

believed

would always stay.

ten bottles of salad dressings

it's time,

i tell myself, staring into

the white

glow

of the ice box.

the trash can

tilted nearby.

who's ranch dressing is that,

thousand island?

Paul Newman's

pear vinaigrette?

who put

this Marie's Blue Cheese

dressing

in here,

that fat bottle

stuck 

in the corner,

the vinegar and oil

in a square

jar.

i read the small print

of expirations.

all of it ancient.

bought in another life.

in salad

happy times.

where did all of this come

from.

the caps

stuck tight.

the floating of strange gel

at the top

of each old liquid, unpoured.

it's time.

good Lord, it's time.

the lost key

i find

what i'm looking under

the table,

in the darkness,

the shadows.

i'm on my hands and knees

as i often

am

when wanting something

or someone

to give

me what i want,

what i desperately need.

i flounder in

the dark until my hand

touches

what it is

that was lost for so long,

that all important

key.

letting them know who's boss

as i wait

for the sun to rise high

enough

so that it

warms the yard,

the chairs

so that i can go out

and read

the paper,

i fix coffee and 

commiserate with the dog

and cat,

bewildered

by the divorce.

one on the counter

pawing

a can of tuna,

the other

with a ball in its

mouth,

holding a longing stare.

all in good time,

i tell them,

and as you both know

by now,

i'm currently

the new boss here.

the racetrack years

i lived

near the racetrack for a few years.

from

my bedroom

window

i could hear the call of each

race.

i could hear

the thunder

of hooves. smell

the atmosphere,

of good luck and despair.

Sheila would

ask me to close the window

when she

came over to make

love

but i told her know.

it's part of it.

an omen of sorts

it was

our first date, our last date,

when she

screamed

and pointed

out the window of the car,

and said,

oh my God,

look,

it's the severed

head of a rabbit.

she began to cry

hysterically.

i slowed

the car down

stopped and got out.

i took a look.

it was a cinnamon

donut

bitten in half.

fatherly advice

i told my father once,

about a horrible

break up

with someone i was in

love with.

terrible love.

his response was, well,

whatever you

do,

don't start drinking or

taking drugs.

there's more

fish in the sea.

that night we went out

to eat

at Captain George's all

you can eat,

seafood buffet.

he was so right and so

wrong in

so many ways.

fine art disposed of

it's a beautiful thing.

this

hornets nest.

i knock it to the ground with

a long

stick.

dried

and empty

at winters start,

but a work of art.

an amazing

thing.

the intricate

web

of cones.

paper thin.

i think about taking it

home,

maybe spray

painting it, turning it

into a lamp

shade

of some sort, but don't

of course.

i drop it into the bag,

and place it in

a can,

for the man on Monday.

we commiserate

he tells

me about his knee replacement,

pulls up his

pant leg

to show

me the eight inch scar,

puffy

and pink.

i in turn tell him about my

sinus surgery.

and my

reaction to Levofloxacin,

how it nearly

ruptured my

Achilles tendons,

after just three pills

swallowed.

then out

of the blue he tells me

about

how Hitler escaped from

Germany

and lived out his life

in Argentina.

I've got nothing for that.

leaving the door wide open

i left

the door wide open

all night.

not because i wanted people

to come

in,

but because i just forgot

to close

it after i turned

out all

the lights.

a Freudian slip,

perhaps,

but no one

arrived. not a stranger

or ex-wife.

i guess i was

just lucky this time.

the enormous building

he owned

the enormous building on the corner.

he was a business

man.

known

about town. he could have

been the mayor

if the wanted to.

beloved

by all who knew him.

but then came

the slow decline.

he forgot appointments,

names,

and places to be.

he'd leave the house

with stained

shirts,

baggy pants, that

sagged

on his thinning waist.

his eyes

had lost that shine.

and then i saw that the building

had been sold.

it was

painted a different

color, his name taken off.

it didn't take

long to find him though.

lying

beneath that beautiful

and

enormous stone.

the handwritten note

i appreciated the effort,

the time

it took

to carefully construct

a handwritten

note, telling me that she's

leaving.

i liked how it was folded

neatly

and placed upon

my pillow, so that i would

see it when i got home.

she even drew

a heart with an arrow through

it, with a red

ink pen.

it was the effort

that i'd been looking for

from her,

since the day we met.

and here it was, at last,

thoughtful,

at the end.

we all make mistakes

she tells

me about the one that got away.

a country

boy

who sang

and played the guitar.

he had blue

eyes,

she said,

tall and lanky, but a momma's

boy.

he wore

a hat, a cowboy hat,

and knew

his way

around a farm.

he wanted to marry me,

but i said

no.

it was probably

my biggest mistake,

if you don't count

this tattoo

on my face

that runs down

my neck 

and breasts, and onto

both arms.

deserving gratuity

i leave

a generous tip for the waitress,

and despite

my wife's objections,

i insist that it's

not because the girl

is so beautiful

with long

legs and doe

like eyes, or her bright smile.

it's not because her skin

glistens,

or that she smells

like a bouquet of flowers

when she bends

to fill my

cup, one more time.

it's the service, i tell her,

she's so attentive

and efficient,

that's why.

the inside weather

the outside

weather is meaningless

if the inside

weather

is bad.

sunshine is nothing,

nor is

a pleasant breeze,

or a soft rain.

if the inside

is full of dark wind

and heat,

thunder

and lighting.

the outside air has

nothing on what goes

on inside

of here.

it wasn't long before they knew

i wore

a new shirt and tie to the interview,

i polished

my shoes.

i was hoping

to distract

the interviewer from

my lack

of skills

and education.

i smiled, was congenial.

my hair

was combed.

i was the boy my mother

sent off

to school.

so i got the job,

but was clueless.

it wasn't long before they

figured me out,

and knew.

wanting more cold water

i first

discovered the joy

of cold

water

in a clear glass when

my mother poured

the drink

from a pitcher

full of ice.

we were kids, out

of breath,

panting

in the summer heat

of Barcelona,

having been

chased

down a long dusty

street.

running away from

something,

or someone.

i can't remember that

part.

just the water

and wanting more.

when everything is fine

i try

so hard to block out

the foolish

things i've said and done

over a lifetime,

i try to push

those thoughts away,

block them out of my

mind.

but they're determined

to stay,

rising their little ugly

heads, just

when everything seems

fine.

is it just for tonight?

what

reason do i feel you beside

me

in the night. pulled

so close.

your skin,

your arms

wrapped tightly around

me.

is it the cold,

the wind

outside,

are you lonely, are you afraid?

what

brings you next

to me?

holding me so tight.

is it love this time,

or is it

just for tonight?

giving God a helping hand

the grapes

at the grocery store

are so huge.

so green and plump.

these apples too,

and the oranges.

the bananas have a radiant

glow about them.

i've never seen such

enormous melons,

or pineapples.

everything

is sugary sweet now,

so much so it hurts

your teeth,

not a sour

bite in the whole lot.

mad scientists, it seems, 

not God,

are now full time

on the job.

so much is over

exhausted

with it all, we 

settle into

the age

we are, who we are

and what

we've become.

the weight of us no longer

means

anything, the lines

on our face,

the greying of hair.

even the aches and pains

are acceptable.

at last

we relax into the big

chair

and sigh,

relieved that so much

is over.

what can't new love do?

what seems

bleak one day, suddenly in

the sunlight

is not

so bad

or dreary.

sleep helps, of course.

and new

love.

what can't new love do

to a life

gone astray?

i don't need a cloud

i don't believe in

the cloud.

i believe in the attic,

or the cellar.

a place

where i can go on

a rainy day

with a flashlight and look

at all the things

i deemed important

at some point

in my life.

the boxes of photos.

the year books,

love letters

unsent, or received.

the mementos, the journals,

the old ball glove,

the deflated

football,

the tennis racket.

i used to wear that jacket

over there.

those boots.

i once tried to learn how

to play

that guitar,

that harmonica,

and all those records.

those albums

i played until scratched

or warped.

there they are. there they'll

stay.

i don't need a cloud,

i write things down.

even a house with good bones

you know when it's time

to move,

when

there's a leak

you can't find,

when

the floor creaks, and

the furnace

no longer

churns

providing heat.

when the windows

let the air

in 

and the roof sags,

when

the handle on the door

won't turn

and the oven breaks.

it was a good house 

with good bones

for a long time,

but all things

must pass, and it's time

to move on.

two birds singing an old tune

the debate

changes nothing. no one's

mind is

swayed

or switched

to the other side.

it's two birds in a cage

singing

an old tune,

one red,

one blue.

we've been listening

way too long.

i plug my ears

with my fingers

and escape to another

room.

i'll figure it out later

halfway

into the book, i come across

several

pages

stuck to each other

by some

spill

of a drink,

or rain

storm leaking in.

i can't separate them

without

tearing

them apart. it's where

the meat of

the story

unfolds, the denouement,

but

i move on.

i skip ahead.

i forgive

and forget. the movie

comes out

tomorrow.

i mispoke

politics

are brutal. it exposes

lies,

and lies

that one thought would

never

see the light of day.

but

the media will bend you

over,

make you

cough,

and drop your drawers,

poke

around in your ears,

your nose,

it will show the world

your

old deceptive

ways.

store music

when

you hear the Doors,

or Hendrix,

or Joplin,

or Stairway to Heaven

in

the grocery store,

playing

softly

from the overhead

speakers

somewhere in the ceiling.

you know 

that it's

nearly over.

holding onto the light

it's no

different now than it was

when we

were children

chasing

fireflies with mason

jars,

trying to capture

and hold

onto to joy forever.

keeping

that golden

light on.

eating the last slice

i see the last

slice

of cake in the ice box.

it's past

midnight

and i can't sleep.

the open door

shines

a yellow light on my

legs,

my arms

and face.

i eat the cake.

please forgive me

in the morning.

it's just

cake.

i miss my stalker

at times

i miss my stalker.

the strange woman in Maryland

who

texts me

from a variety of phone numbers

giving me

a hard time

about 

whatever bothers her woke

sensibilities.

i wonder how she is.

if she's taking

her meds

and still going to therapy.

i wonder

if her husband is still

in the basement

chained

to a bed.

the shoe sale at Nordstrom Rack

the wife

looks over at me as we sip

our

morning coffee,

reading the paper

and says,

we should protest more.

we live

so close to the White House,

and we haven't

gone down there

in months to protest something.

we used to be

activists,

remember.

we marched and carried

signs,

we got tear gassed

and arrested.

we don't seem to care

anymore

about the climate or the wars,

or the injustices

going on

in the world.

i look up from the paper,

and say,

i'm sorry, did you say something.

i was just

reading this story

about a cat who walked 800

miles back home

after it was lost in Montana.

and by

the way,

there's a shoe sale on 

at Nordstrom Rack today.

we should go.

Saturday Clothes

for the first

day of school, we wore

our

school

clothes, bought three days

ago

at Sears or Penny's.

but it wasn't long before

the school

clothes looked

no different than our

Saturday clothes.

holes

in the shoes,

the shirts and jeans.

buttons missing,

zippers

broken,

but at least for one day

we looked

shiny

and clean.

a very short stay at the hourly room

we were tired.

from the long drive.

it was raining and cold,

the roads

were dangerous so we

pulled over

at a motel on the side

of the road.

the room was cheap,

but it had a vibrating

bed, which my son

wanted to slip coins

into the meter.

i could see outside

the thin sheers

the pulsating red light

of the sign

saying Liver and Onions

all week.

a roadhouse bar.

the place reeked of beer

and smoke.

my foot stepped into

a pair

of underwear on the floor.

i told my son and my

wife,

don't move an inch.

don't touch anything.

we're leaving.

try not to breathe.

something from the Ming Dynasty

it was a tall

vase,

set proudly

in the foyer.

a pot of sorts that i told

her

looked

like it came

from the Ming Dynasty.

it's beautiful

i told her.

the blue swirls of

dragons

and vines

against the gleaming

porcelain

white.

Target she told me.

twenty-nine,

ninety-five.

i've got another one

in bathroom.

lion eats zookeeper

it makes

the news, all channels,

the world

wide web,

and even the newspapers,

have a column

with a full

pictorial spread.

lion eats

zookeeper

the headline says.

and what are we to think

about this?

when did the lion

give up

on the raw meat thrown

into his cage

and want something

a little fresher.

something to chase

as it runs

away. something

fitting to his own

particular nature.

a pair of white socks with holes

i've noticed

over the years, that women

spend a lot

of time on

their nails.

fingernails, toenails.

buffing and sanding them

with

little tools,

painting them with the tiniest

of brushes.

a lot of time.

i've seen all colors

of the rainbow on those nails.

from cherry red

to black

to shades of green

or blue

and of course pink.

which goes without saying.

if it's not their hair

appointment

they're going to,

it's one for a pedicure

or a manicure.

it's an interesting thing

i ponder

as i stare

at my virginal toes, 

and slip into a pair

of white socks, 

with holes.

ready for kids

it's the largest pumpkin

i've ever seen.

it's gorgeous.

so round

and bright, 

as orange as any

harvest moon could be.

the stem still on which

helps them

spin it

to the good side.

the newlyweds carry it

together

to the yard,

where the skeleton

swings,

to where the cobwebs

float against

the hedges.

to where plastic bats

sway

on strings.

the young woman,

tells me

that they want children

one day.

i say, indeed,

staring at the yard. why wait?

i think you're ready.

long overdue for confession

i should

go visit the church.

St. Raymond's.

i can see it through the window

now that the leaves

have fallen.

i can hear

the church bells, 

the organ, the choir.

i can

smell the incense.

i'm way overdue for confession.

maybe tomorrow

i'll sneak

into the Little Chapel

and hit my knees.

ask for forgiveness.

give thanks.

two of your biggest fears

when you're eighteen

in 1971

the scariest

words

other than your number

is up,

your drafted,

and about to be shipped off

to Vietnam,

is your girlfriend telling you

she's late.

i can still

feel the chill running up

my spine.

my mouth going

dry.

my hands beginning

to shake.

and then the elation when

she whispered 

into my ear.

don't worry.

it arrived, it's okay.

some stayed, some died, some moved on

we used to sit

around

in Joe's mother's basement

and play

records.

drink beer.

he had a black light

on the dresser

and posters

on the wall, there were

five or six

of us.

children half grown

who used

to play sandlot ball together.

then things

turned.

Henry brought in the weed

and the dark room

filled with

smoke.

in time,

he tied his arm up, and

shot

into a vein

a syringe of dope.

childhood

ended then

and we went our separate

ways

for good. but some stayed

on the dangerous

and slippery

road.

they say it's your birthday

men for the most

part

ignore their birthdays. they

want no

fuss,

no cake,

no gifts, no cards.

maybe dinner out.

that's enough.

but no candles please

or anyone

singing.

but

with women it's different.

it's not

just one day,

it's all week and beyond.

every friend within

a hundred

miles is in on the celebration.

a parade takes place.

music

and gifts, confetti falls

from the sky.

it's a birthday greeting

all month

long.

with apologies to david ignatow

as i sit

at the table outside

the coffee

shop,

i begin to butter my toasted

bagel,

but it slips from my hand

and rolls away,

down the sidewalk

it goes,

down the street, down

the hill.

i run after it,

but it's futile and before

long,

i'm rolling too.

around and around.

my life

out of control.

this wasn't what i planned.

the rising tide

is it nature,

or God or a combination

of both

telling

us

something.

see how the flood water rise

and takes

lives.

washes

the town away.

are we being punished

or were

we fools

to move here and always

ignore

the rising tide.

a change is gonna come

i can

hear music from the upper

window

of the apartment

building.

there's a potted

plant

on the sill.

i hear Sam Cooke

singing,

in his mellow way.

a change is gonna come.

i take a seat

on the stoop and listen.

i savor

the moment.

drifting

back into yesterdays.

nothing is

truly gone.

embracing winter

good to take

out the heavy coats,

the scarves

and hats.

gloves.

setting on the steps

the boots.

soon snow

will fall.

soon you'll build a fire

and take

the shovel out.

you'll embrace

the wind

and ice.

you'll savor

a new season of low

sunlight.

summer was too long,

too hot.

this will feel right.

the court jester

i tried

to win her over, make

her happy

with gold

and silver.

with rings

and bracelets.

bouquets of flowers.

expensive things.

i told her jokes

to make her laugh.

i bought her a car,

a mink,

a house.

i dropped to my knee

and gave

her me.

i danced the jig.

still it wasn't

enough.

i was the court jester,

she was

the queen.

it's too nice out to stay in

i neither

care

or don't care what

the score is

anymore,

which team wins.

i no longer wear

the colors

or sit and watch or

listen

to the game.

what matter when young,

seems

odd now.

feels silly, 

feels strange.

a single flower

strange

to see a single flower

coming out

of the crack in the pavement.

a bloom

of yellow gold.

it gives

you hope,

gives you a reason

to go on,

and begin

again

despite everything

you know.

camping will bring us closer together

we wanted

to reconnect, to reinvigorate

our marriage,

because our love for

one another had waned

over the years

in sharing the same

bathroom.

so we bought camping gear

and a map

of the Appalachian Trail.

we bought

a tent,

a canteen,

a lantern, sleeping

bags,

bear repellant,

several cans of baked beans

and rain resistant

ponchos.

then we went

camping.

when we got home we

called our

lawyers.

the moving truck

would arrive the next day.

opening the third eye

i do some

yoga

with my left arm, stretching

it out,

up

and down,

as far behind my back

as i can

go.

i'm a bird,

a bee,

a plane.

then i do my right arm.

around

and around, spinning it like

a propellor.

spinning

both in conjunction

with each other.

before i know it

i'm off the ground and

flying upwards

into the clouds.

it's bliss for i can see

and understand

everything now.

adrift in Portland Oregon

her new

about to be ex calls me on

the phone

from Portland.

he's weeping.

she's taken half of everything,

he says.

the same as she did

to you.

she emptied out

my bank

account and now i have

to pay alimony

for the rest of my life.

she has the car,

the furniture,

the art.

she took

the dog too.

any advice?

you should have called

me twelve

years ago,

i tell him before you said

i do,

and made her your wife.

be careful though,

she likes to tap the phone

and download

what you write.

your true self

i get bored

easily these days,

i turn

off the television or toss

a book

across the room

with no

problem.

i push away a tasteless

plate.

i get off the phone

quickly

when

my eyes glaze over

with small talk,

or leave

the party early.

i get out of line

if it doesn't move

fast enough.

i've found out

who i truly am

at last

and make no apologies,

so please,

don't ask.

the exit wound

she rubs

her finger along the circle

of hard

skin,

a scar, healed.

an exit wound, i tell her

with

a grin.

there's more where

that came

from.

but i'm still here, willing

to love

again.

in the white room

strange

to be in a room with strangers.

white walled

and absent of frills.

in a bed

next to who.

eating

meals at a long table

with

people you never

knew.

and yet here you are

at home.

not yours,

or theirs, but a place

somewhere

on a hill, a strange

place,

unknown.

your eyes long for a color,

not white,

but red,

or green, maybe blue.

but we love it here

it's hurricane

season

again.

the winds roar, the streets flood,

houses

and cars

are washed away.

every year it's the same

sad story,

but no one

moves.

no one relocates.

they fix

things up, dry it all out,

batten down the hatches

once more

and wait

for the next hurricane

to arrive,

next week.

i wanted Dr. House, but got Dr. Suess instead

i try

to get my doctor on the phone,

but he's on

his boat

off the coast of

Italy.

if this is an emergency,

dial 911

the recording says.

otherwise,

i'll contact you after

the holidays.

Merry Christmas

to you and your family.

for refills on your prescriptions,

call my head nurse,

Maybeline.

otherwise see

you on the flip side.

next year.

i look at the calendar.

it's still

October.

don't worry, they'll make more

the food is all farm

raised now. or

factory processed full 

of sugar and oil

stuffed into bags

and boxes.

fried hard.

the salmon and chicken,

trout

and pork,

are crammed together

in tubs of water,

or stuck in

tiny little cages,

fattened and colored,

plucked

and chock full

of vitamins and antibiotics.

no wonder

everyone is fat

and sick.

heading to an early grave.

eat up, though,

don't worry,

they'll make more.

question mark and the mysterians

i hear the ding

of the text,

and quickly open up the phone

to see

what important

message

is awaiting me.

what valuable information

has been

sent my way.

but it's a single punctuation mark,

a question

mark.

nothing else.

i write back the same.

i don't recognize the number,

out of state.

i scratch my head,

it's no one familiar.

but i'll think about it all day.

we love you, but you're fired

i think

i was either fired or laid

off

from nearly

every job

i ever had.

and for good reasons too,

how many

more days

could i go

mopping a stairway,

or washing

dishes,

or mowing lawns.

how many

more years could i sit

in a cubicle

with my fingers on a keyboard?

somedays, i even sit down

and have

a talk

with myself now,

and threaten to fire me

from

my own business.

i can be lazy,

and disinterested,

bored

and annoyed

by the work, by the hours,

but i press on. bread

and shelter

being of the utmost

importance.

the eulogy

so much

was made of her iced tea

after she died.

the lemons,

the black tea bags

from

China

soaking

in the boiled water,

how she set

the jar

on the porch in the sunlight.

old school,

the way

her mother did when

she was a child.

a sprig

of mint on

each glass,

how she poured it over

ice,

then rocked on her front

porch,

back

and back and back.

when things bite you

it's one

black spider on the wall.

a fat

long armed spider

swinging

on his web,

faster than i can swat

him

with yesterdays rolled

up paper.

are there more?

is there

a family

of spiders,

living under the floorboards?

residing in closets

and dark

corners.

there's so much going

on in the world

that we don't know about,

until it

bites you.

image is everything

it doesn't matter,

if you're

Indian

or black, white or

Chinese,

Russian or Mexican.

are you a good person?

are you changing your

stance

on everything

you once believed with

all your heart,

flip flopping for votes?

can you articulate

your thoughts,

are you intelligent enough

to string two

sentences together

and tell the world who

you truly are.

or does that even matter

anymore?

i can help you if you ask

i admire

the old man's garden next door.

the tall

black eyed Susans

peering over my fence.

the trellis

full of grapes,

the tomatoes,

the peppers, even a pear

tree

in the corner

with 

green ornaments catching

sunlight.

i see him out there, 

weeding, and watering,

his wide hat

tilted on his tanned face.

sometimes

he looks over

at my yard

and laughs.

he tells me, i can help you

next spring,

all you have to do

is ask.

bottled water

the idea

of bottled water seemed

crazy

as a kid.

we had the hose

attached to the house,

lying

in the grass.

there were spigots to be

turned

on with pliers.

kitchen sinks

had faucets,

bathrooms too.

to have a bottle of spring

water was

was what kings and queens

had.

the rich across

the tracks.

not you.

beauty from a distance

from a distance,

from

a far safe place

those mountains look

beautiful,

the snowcapped peaks,

like

lace,

the green and blue

of the slopes,

full of trees

bending in the wind.

it's a postcard

worthy of Hallmark.

it reminds

me of you, 

knowing that

up close and climbing

that mountain,

you may fall and freeze,

your life may end.

the air is filled with violin strings

when

did it begin, this victimhood

society.

of color,

race,

skin,

age and faith,

gender.

fat or thin.

trans or normal?

when did each and difference

become

a flag

to raise

to get what's coming to you,

what you

perceive

to be a deserving 

thing.

all day long the air

is filled

with violin strings.

the firewood men

the bearded men

in a red pickup truck

are

in the cul de sac.

their loud

engine idles in the road.

the back

is filled

with firewood.

cords and cords,

stacked

high.

they've driven all the way

from Winchester

Virginia.

they're a long way from

home.

they look tired.

they knock at the door,

but i tell

them that i don't have

a fireplace.

which disappoints them,

so i say

okay.

and buy a cord,

and give them a tip.

i watch them turn around,

and head

home.

the blue from their exhaust

clouding the new

moon.

the house on fire up the street

a house

is on fire

down the road.

the red trucks scream

up the highway

with men

in long coats and helmets.

ladders

swinging as

they speed

through the signs

and lights.

the dogs

are loose

chasing,

there is smoke in the air.

you can see for

miles

the flames rising above

the rooftops.

people rush to take

photos

and stare.

the news is already there.

we go

home

and check the oven,

the iron,

she unplugs the dryer

for her

hair.

how dare you express and opinion that doesn't agree with me

an anonymous

person

leaves me a note, saying

that she

won't read

what i write anymore.

i prefer

your silly poems,

your stories

about love and loss,

your benign observations

about the world,

but now,

you've gone too far.

how dare you write about

politics,

how dare you

have an opinion,

or make fun of our political

leaders.

who do you think you are

expressing yourself

so freely,

without censoring.

you're a threat to poetry,

to democracy.

i respond back, Mom,

is that you?

making butter overnight

i sympathized with her,

never being able to lie still,

having

restless leg syndrome,

something we

used to call the Jimmy Leg.

but i couldn't get to sleep

with her lying

there and her leg shaking all night

with a mind of its own.

round and around it went.

the thought suddenly came to me

that if i put her foot

into a bucket of cream,

that i'd have butter by morning.

but she wouldn't go for it,

and screamed.

playing solitaire while waiting for Shirley

i break out

a new

deck of cards as i sit

in the coffee

shop

waiting for Shirley

to show up

with so called big news.

she's always late.

i move the cup away

and my

scone

and lay out the cards for

a game

of solitaire.

someone walks by and tells

me,

that i don't need to do

that anymore.

you can play that game on

your laptop

or phone.

i look at the girl with

blue hair and say, 

yes, i know.

i sigh and put the cards

away,

i take a bite of my scone.

when dogs run free

it was

normal to see stray dogs

back

in the day.

dogs

without collars

roaming the streets,

feral

cats in the woods,

or near

garbage bins.

it was before

we

took them

to dog schools and 

the beauty

parlor,

and gave them names

like girlfriend.

it was before

dogs were surrogate babies,

carried around

in baskets,

wearing

ribbons and bow,

and hats with

little sweaters

to keep their bellies

off the snow,

dogs and cats

ran free back then.

promises promises

the price

of nearly everything

will

not go down.

lumber,

food,

housing.

it's too late for that.

you can't go back.

but joy

is up.

and when you have

joy

well,

there you go.

ignorance

being bliss.

they know everything there is to know about me

they seem

to know your age,

that your knees hurt,

that

you might be overweight,

and on the verge

of pre

diabetes.

they know about your prostate

and ED.

they know about what

vitamins you take,

and your dietary

needs.

they seem to know that

your house

is paid for

and that you are eligible

for a reverse

mortgage.

they seem to know that

you're thinking

about moving

to the beach,

to something one level.

they know

you have money to spend.

that you might

want a new

car, something red,

a convertible,

or a boat to sail away on,

or new dentures, or a hip

replacement

and a phone with big numbers.

they know.

if the phone rings all day,

it's because they know

all about you.

they know what you want,

what you need.

maybe why the cake failed

maybe

i didn't stir the batter

long enough,

maybe

i didn't

put an extra egg in

like the recipe

suggested,

or i put

too much

flour

or sugar into the mix.

maybe i shouldn't

have opened the oven

so much

to check on it,

or kept sticking

toothpicks

into the soft unrisen

skin.

or maybe i took

it out too early.

maybe the heat was

too low,

too high,

or maybe i just didn't

love her

the way she wanted,

from the very

beginning.

i don't know.

the rescue dog

he was a good dog

until

he started to bite people.

men, women,

children,

other dogs.

he chased cars,

and barked

all the time. he chewed

up the furniture,

clothes

shoes,

books and begged

all day for food,

digging into the trash

when i wasn't

home.

he rushed the tv

when he saw a horse

on the screen,

knocking it over,

and yet, i couldn't let

him go.

he was my dog,

my buddy, my friend,

but i'll never rescue

one from the pound again.

wired up

i'm wired

up.

i've got a charger in my car,

in my bedroom,

the office,

the living room,

the basement

and there's one

next to the washer and

dryer

in the laundry room.

as God is my

witness

i'll never miss a text

or a call,

or an update

on Facebook

or YouTube.

there was no one there, but you

i used to take the long

way

home.

the scenic route,

sometimes i'd even

stop

somewhere along the way

for a beer or two,

or grab

a bite to eat,

or sit and watch the sun

go down,

throw bread

to the geese.

i delayed the inevitable.

i didn't want to go home.

there was

no one there,

but you.

political science then breakfast

those countries over there,

them folks,

plum don't like

each other,

my grandfather

from West Virginia

used to say

as he chawed on some

tobacco

and whittled a stick

into a smaller stick.

they've been bickering

since before

Jesus shook the sand out

of his sandal

and turned water into wine.

and i got some news

for you too,

it won't ever end,

never.

they just don't see eye

to eye on anything.

it's like the Hatfields and McCoys

with those people,

or the Capulets and the Montagues.

it ain't never gonna

end.

not until the big one drops,

kaboom.

and then it's sayonara for

everyone.

now why don't you 

be a good boy

and run over to

the chicken coop and see

if we got

any fresh eggs. i'll start

frying up some scrapple

on the griddle.

i miss eating pancakes

my friend Jenny,

from Canada,

went home to visit

her old friends,

but before

she left

she asked me if i wanted

anything from

that northern land.

i told her a bottle

of pure maple syrup

would be nice,

that sweet

golden amber

sucked

right out of a tree

in the woods.

i was eating a lot of pancakes

those days.

so she smuggled it in.

i still have it.

i look at the unopened bottle

almost everyday

when i open the cupboard.

i wonder

where she is now, sweet Jenny.

deported maybe.

i miss her,

as well as pancakes.

the scripted world we live in

can any politician

speak anymore without

a teleprompter

and a script?

does every word spoken

have to be

written down

by their handlers,

and 

read off the screens

to the right,

to the left.

why can't they just talk,

and say

what's on their minds.

is it a lack

of intelligence

or confidence?  or both.

the whole world is a stage

as it's always

been,

with memorized

lines.

big smiles and grins.

i think we're close to Halloween

i know

when it's close to Halloween.

it's obvious,

no one has to tell me,

or point

at the calendar page.

the neighbor has strung

up cob

webs on the trees

and over their door.

they've

set out an array of pumpkins,

carved

with lights

beaming

from their chopped eyes

and mouth.

there's an illuminated

skeleton

hanging from the flagpole,

and a speaker

with music, emitting

screams,

and guttural roars.

rubber spiders and rats

are everywhere

you look,

but when it comes down to it

for the kids,

it's all about

the candy.

no boxes of raisins

or apples, please,

just candy bars.

the burial

i lie

down in the open field.

i am alone

despite the gathering

around me.

the field is wide

and green.

i hear the wind

move

between the trees.

i could lie here

forever

if they'd let me.

i listen to all the words

spoken,

to all the music

that fills my ears.

i smell the earth

around me.

i can almost touch

the hands

and tears of those

i've known.

i'm alone.

but at last there is no fear.

beware of happy people

beware of happy people.

their joy

and laughter

will weigh

you down. you will

feel worse

than ever

being around them.

they can't be trusted.

they are too shiny

and too bright to look 

at very long.

they are ornaments

glittering on the tree

of life.

beware of them.

steer clear.

don't fall for their light.

the wig store on King Street

i stand in front

of the wig

store on King Street 

and marvel

at all

the wigs

on the mannequin heads

staring back at me.

all colors

of the rainbow

are represented. 

curly wigs,

silvery

straight blondes, wild

brunettes.

and kinky

red heads. they remind

me of so much.

i move on.

what happens next

we think we know,

but we

don't know.

we'd like to envision

the future

to project in our mind

what could

be.

to see how the years

will stretch out.

we'd like to have a plan,

and see it

through.

but we don't know,

not really.

the next year, the next

day, the next hour 

is always

a mystery.

keep your hands to yourself

i know

my body. i know the difference

between

a cough

and the flu.

i know what

a rash is, and what

the difference is

between

a strain and a torn

tendon.

i know how to wrap,

or put

a band aid on.

i know what a fever is,

i know

why that spot on my

arm

turning green

used to be blue.

i know why my eyes

are blurred

this morning and my

voice hoarse.

i know what palpitations

are,

what the jitters

are,

why my knee aches.

i know all there is to know

about elevation,

ice and heat.

i know what pills to take

and which ones

to leave alone.

i've lived in this body long enough

to figure most

things out.

i'm good as long as the doctor

keeps his hands

to himself.

leaving and arriving

i can't remember

why

i'm here,

why i left where i was,

i can't recall

what i was trying to get away

from.

why i had to leave

and get out

of there.

but i'm here now.

we'll see how long

this lasts.

this one time in band camp

the old

have stories that they want to tell,

tall or short tales of

the adventures

that they lived,

but the young

are too busy

making

their own stories

to listen, to sit and be still.

no one

gathers around

like they used to

and ask

the elderly questions

about past lives, mistakes

made, regrets.

few if any let them express

how it used to be,

no one has the time now

or the patience

to listen to stories

about how life was

way back in the 1970s.

clicking all day on click bait

i'm a sucker

for click bait, i can't help

myself, i don''t have

the will power to not

hit the button

to learn

how to double my money

in one

easy

step, guaranteed.

i click the button that explains

why 

college aged girls

love older men

and what city

to move to 

to meet them.

i click

on the title of how to grow

your hair

back with one

common vitamin.

i hit the button 

that will give me absolute

proof

that aliens exist,

photos included.

is that record collection

sitting in your basement

collecting dust

worth five million dollars.

the answer is yes.

click here to learn the rest.

open borders and no doors on the house

i get into

a big argument with my wife

over politics.

i may be

sleeping on the couch

for a few

months because of it.

she says she

believes in open borders,

that we should

let everyone in.

come one come all.

give me your tired, your poor,

your downtrodden,

etc.

so i get out my

power tools

and take all the doors

off our house.

the front door, the back door,

the side

door,

the garage door.

she looks at me with her

hands on her hips and asks,

what are you doing?

why are you taking

all the doors off our house.

anyone can come

right on in

and kill us, or steal everything

we have.

we have little children

in our house. we need 

to protect them.

we can't let complete strangers

come into our

house when we know

nothing about them.

they could be mentally ill,

or hardened

criminals.

exactly, i tell her.

inspired by the VP's speeches

i had some

free time on my hands,

so i started to

unburden

my closets from

what was burdening them.

and as we know,

time,

the passage

of time

is important. so i wanted

to do something

constructive

with this time.

i set things out on the curb

for the community,

the people

in the community,

because as we know,

the community is made

up of people.

many of whom

are middle class people

with nice

lawns.

some with borders,

some with fences

or stone walls,

maybe hedges,

or electric monitoring, but,

however

i am filled with joy

as i strive to make my

closets cleaner,

neater,

making my heart full of

ambitions

and hope.

another Batman movie?

is it possible

for Hollywood to make a movie

that doesn't

involve Batman

these days,

or Marvel

characters from the comic

books?

everything is fantasy,

written for

a child.

we're in the era of special

effects.

is this it now?

no more scripts with

complex plots,

and fleshed out

characters,

no more thoughtful

dialogue,

or authentic people

and towns. just guns

and wars

and aliens,

zombies and the end

of the world.

has our intelligence

really fallen

that far down?

slow down, there's a cop

i like

how when people

in traffic

zig zagging,

speeding,

tail gating,

running lights

and stop

signs suddenly see

a cop behind

or beside them

and slow down.

i like how suddenly

they're on

their best behavior,

following the rules

of the road

until he's out of sight.

it tells you a lot

about 

the world we live in now.

dear so and so, i'm sorry

it's a gloomy day,

rain,

cold,

there's nothing on tv,

and i'm waiting

on new

books to arrive

from Amazon.

so i get out a piece

of paper

and make a list of all

the people

i should apologize

too

for things i've done

or said

over the years.

i'll show remorse

and regret,

but then i change my

mind,

and take a nap instead.

tracing our roots

i drool

into a glass vial

and send my spit in to check my

DNA

at the ancestry

company

to see who i might be related

to, both

currently and down

through the ages.

a man in Finland comes up

from the paleolithic period.

they find a cave

drawing of him

that looks just like me.

and beside

him is a woman holding

what looks to be an iron

skillet

about to clobber him 

in his shaggy head.

his dirty feet seem to be

resting on a coffee table

of some sort.

it all makes sense now.

the owl before dark

there's an owl

in the blue

dark

of the trees as the sun

slips

into the rocks

and hills

beyond

the sea. we stop for it

when we

hear

his deep voice

calling out.

we look

up.

we look for the burnt

yellow

of his eyes,

the spread of his wings,

the glint

of his talons

gripping limbs,

but

there's only shadows,

and we realize,

there's much in these woods,

that can see us,

but we can't see them.

can't stop what's coming

when

you see someone on the news,

a wheel

of some sorts

in gold chains and dark

glasses,

a celebrity

in handcuffs,

being arrested

by the po po,

being shoved into the back

seat

of a squad car,

as they

play his rapper

soundtrack,

you often shake your

head

and laugh, and say,

yup,

who didn't see that coming?

sweet terms of endearment

in the beginning,

she called

me darling,

i called her sugar,

or kitty cat,

she called

me tiger, or

sweetie pie, i called

her honey bun,

or buttercup.

it went on like this

for years

and years,

with sweet terms

of endearment,

but in the end.

we called each other

by our complete

and formal names.

first middle and last,

as it read on the separation

agreement,

things

had forever changed.

the unregistered nurse

she was

an unregistered nurse,

i met

in a local dive

bar across town,

but

the lack of a degree

didn't stop her from helping

people,

tall in the heels,

she always

had her

uniform

on and a red cross

bag

beside her. she wore

a stethoscope

around her neck

like a strand

of pearls.

she's coming over later

to examine me

and administer

a dose

of TLC.

i hope they never catch her

and put her in jail.

i read the news today, oh boy

my dog

likes to watch television

with me,

he enjoys

the cop shows,

when

the dogs are chasing

down

criminals

as they jump

over chain link fences

with their

trousers

half down,

but ever since the news

reports came out 

of Springfield

Ohio concerning

the influx

of seventeen thousand

immigrants

with different dietary needs,

he runs and hides

when he

sees me in the kitchen

sharpening

a knife

with the oven on,

and the big roasting pan

on the counter.

the enormous word salad continued

so how

would you curb inflation

and bring

prices down

the interviewer

asks

the candidate

who can't

stop laughing.

seemingly filled to the brim

with laughing

gas.

well, she says.

as you know

i come from a middle

class

family,

my mother had to actually

work to earn

money.

twenty minutes later,

with still

no answer,

she says, i hate that other

guy.

he's the reason

this country is in such bad

shape.

which makes the audience

scream with

approval.

but you and Joe have had

four years

to do something about all

these problems that

you promise to solve.

why haven't you done it by now?

you don't like

strong women, or

women of color,

do you? she replies.

air is good

so much

depends on air.

these tires on my car,

to keep

it rolling along.

my bike,

the ballons

in the sky,

the blimp sailing by,

the wings

of a plane,

my lungs.

a diver fathoms down.

it goes without saying.

we need air,

it's quite necessary

it appears.

carry on

it's a great documentary

of the musicians

that lived

in Laurel Canyon

during the heyday of

classic

rock

music being made.

there's genius,

there's drugs, there's

drinking and promiscuity,

inflated egos

and true talent

all rolled

into one.

there's Joni

and Judy,

Nash

and Crosby,

Stills and Young,

but like most fairy tales,

gone awry.

the endings are varied,

both love and

animosity survives.

here's the plan

it's not maybe,

or we'll see, or let's wait

to see

what the weather is like,

no,

it's mandatory

that we stand

in line at Liberty Deli,

early 

in the morning, for

coffee

and a bagel,

then stroll over to Central

Park,

with a newspaper,

then find

a park bench seat,

every day this week.

holy ground

sorrow,

as they say, is holy ground.

i'm not

sure who

said it.

some sage,

perhaps,

C.S. Lewis,

or Henri Nouwen,

but it's true.

it's an island of quiet

contemplation,

tears

and deep sorrow.

it's

looking through the glass

darkly.

words

don't help.

nor does time.

but with faith

in God,

you'll find the other side

my feet will find them

i find

things that i've lost

with my

bare feet,

usually in the middle

of the night.

coins,

and earrings,

rings,

notes fallen

from my

pockets

to the floor.

pens

and keys.

a stray high heel

left behind.

my feet know where

they are.

given time,

they find them all.

feel free to go

when i would

visit

my mother

in hospice, visit her

curled

body,

still and near lifeless

in a Pompeii pose,

eyes blinking,

as water was dripped

into her

mouth from a straw,

i'd whisper

into her ear,

it's okay now.

it's okay, we're fine,

feel free

to go.

before subtraction begins

in the beginning

it's about

addition,

adding on to what

little you

have.

collecting more,

putting things

on the shelf,

stuffing the closets,

the drawers.

you make more friends,

finding room

for everyone.

you make

more money.

you find new

places to put things.

you're a long way away

from when

subtraction

begins.

take two of these and call me in the morning

rage

seems to be

in fashion these days.

road rage,

political rage.

parking

rage.

border rage.

rage about prices,

about

the lines,

everyone seems to be

enraged

over something.

there's a foe

around every corner.

it's hard

to leave

the house sometimes

without a suit of armor,

a helmet on

and a shield

in hand

to protect you from

all the brimstone

and flames.

different forms of happiness

happiness

to a child, is an ice-cream

cone,

a lollipop,

a ride

on the carousel.

it's a snow

day

from school.

a ride

on a pony,

a new ball, a new

pair

of tennis shoes.

but now,

it's different,

and yet still

simple

to define.

a good sleep perhaps,

or a fine meal,

maybe

a tall glass of wine.

or a waiting

book

in your lap,

legs reclined.

but you too

comes to mind.

the unemployment line

it was

early 1970's when John

and I

together,

after getting laid off from

some lame job,

would

go through the want ads

in back

of the Washington Post,

looking for work.

we had no

skills

other than being sarcastic,

and being

young and strong.

chef,

lawyer, clerk, maid,

driver.

we crossed them all off,

and circled

the few that maybe fit

our limited skill set.

construction laborer,

custodial

engineer.

then we went down to the local

unemployment

office to apply

for benefits.

the line was long. it was cold

and windy

as we stood there

with our hands in our pockets,

stamping our

feet in the ice

and snow.

it seemed like everyone was

out of work.

but it was strangely

not alarming though,

to be adrift

in a world where the future

was unknown.

not a blonde in the bunch

at one point we

thought about putting my father

into a home.

a nursing home

of some sort.

at 96 he seemed ready.

crumbling

like a cookie in milk.

he agreed to visit, but only

because he wanted

to see what

the nurses looked like.

not a skinny blonde

in the bunch,

so he said no, and stayed

at home,

with his walker, and his

meals on wheels,

his tv and phone,

and occasional visits

from Mitzi

who brough him cake

and baby oil.

knitting frenzy

my mother

would

sit and knit

for hours

in the big chair in the corner

listening to

the radio with

balls of yarn

at her feet.

blue, red, yellow, green.

the needles clinked

against each other

as she went

at it.

you had to leave her

alone,

and not ask her

where your baseball glove

was,

or your shoes, or

your blue jacket.

she was in a zone.

Christmas was coming

and she

need

to make six more

Afghans.

Oprah will tell us what to do

how could

we live a good life without

celebrities

telling us

what to eat or wear, or what

to read.

how to lose weight,

or keep

our skin smooth

and moisturized,

and now

because of their enormous

wisdom,

and spotlight,

they tell us who to vote

for.

it used

to be intellectuals,

writers

and poets,

philosophers and sages,

religious leaders who tried

to give us

insights

on life,

but now it's Oprah.

starting over again

i'm hungry.

very hungry, so i go downtown

to my

favorite

restaurant.

Aldos on the boulevard.

i've been going there

for years.

they know me

by name.

i know the menu

by heart.

i know Joseph at the door,

Linda

at the bar,

i know all

the wait staff.

it's a pleasant place to go

on any given night,

a refuge

of sorts, a home away

from home.

but when i peek into the window,

the room is dark,

chairs are on

the tables,

the door is locked.

the sign says we're forever

closed.

no one told me.

how was i to know?

i look around at what else

might be open.

there's Peking Gourmet

on the corner.

why not go there?

so i do.

i start over.

it's what i'm good at.

rarely am i bored with you

they say

only boring people get bored.

i beg

to differ.

i can ride my bike about

ten miles

and then

i'm bored

and have to get off.

i've seen enough.

an hour in the pool

splashing around

and i

want to get out

and lie on a chair.

an hour

later

i have to walk

and skip stones

in the lake. if i'm bored

with tv,

i can easily turn it off,

if i'm bored with a book

i throw

it across the room,

if i'm

bored with a tuna caserole,

i dump

it all in the trash.

i'm bored with many things,

many many

things,

but never, or should i say,

rarely am i ever

bored with you.

the last leaf on the tree

i don't trust

anyone

who doesn't have a pen

or a pencil

and a piece

of paper nearby to write on.

or books

on a shelf.

or envelopes,

and a checkbook,

or stamps.

or magazines.

i want them to be like

me still hanging

on to

the last century.

holding out

against

the digital man,

and

as tom waits sings.

i want to remain the last

leaf on the tree.

it's you again

i pick

up a random seashell

on the beach,

it's white and pink,

shiny

with rainbow stripes

of color

thread

thin.

i put it to my ear,

to see

who might be calling.

it's you again.

i toss it

back into the sea

and keep

walking.

minimum skills

my technical

skills

are weak,

i know enough to answer

the phone,

or log on

or off,

or search for many meaningless

things.

but that's about it.

and truthfully

i don't want to know more.

i just want

it

to ring or not ring,

and to be able

to order

and have delivered

at my door

a variety of things.

they never give the ring back

i remember

shopping

for wedding rings.

engagement rings

to be precise.

agonizing about what size,

what shape,

gold or silver,

what type of stone,

pear or round,

maybe a multiple setting

style.

can one put a price

on true love?

but then the thought occurred

to me,

that what if this is

another costly

mistake.

so i don't go cheap, but

i don't

go crazy either at Tiffany's,

putting the house

up for collateral.

i find a safe middle ground.

a price i can

absorb

when the ship inevitably

sinks.

plans for the future

my neighbor

has an end of the world

plan.

he's dug

a bunker

in his back yard, with air

vents.

generators,

freezers and accommodations

for four.

i see him carrying in books

and board

games.

he's even made

room for Fido,

his dog.

it's a very nice tunnel

that he's dug

from his house

to the entry way

for when the bombs are

dropped

and apocalypse sets in.

he asks me

what i'm preparing to do

when the end

comes.

i tell him. my plan is to run

towards the light

and embrace

it.