Thomas the cat

was he

capable of true love,

unconditional

love?

yes.

and was he able to grieve

when it was time

to grieve?

yes again.

i saw

it all in the cat

he owned,

the cat

that owned him.

the love was there

and when it

died

he grieved terribly

at it's parting,

lost in a tearful

bitter end.

the short and sweet obit

the obit,

sparse and concise

as

the fresh snow

fallen,

now ice,

gives

the birth date,

and death.

the name.

no need to go into detail

here about

the wives

and children,

the relationships,

his work

and play.

how do you sum up

a life

in a few lines?

nothing says it all,

or comes close

defining all that has

occurred between

the start

and finish line.

please go on, i'm just going to nap a bit

when what you're

saying

turns into nonsense,

a babbling brook

of words

and random thoughts,

opinions,

half baked that

i don't agree with,

you'll see me

doze off

as i sit here,

not smiling, not

frowning,

just numb

and half asleep

in my

overstuffed chair.

you can see how busy i am

the to do

calendar is empty.

although i've managed a few

new circles

of brown

from the coffee cup

on its pages.

so it does look like i'm

quite busy

over here,

hurried

and rushed with so

much to do.

image is everything

these days.

the ambivalent mourners

bitter

by the past. 

it's a difficult time

with

funerals.

siblings, and friends.

who comes

to show

respect?

who appears out of

the woodwork

decades

lost in their own lives

having never

reached out.

who

remembers the good,

who's

in tears.

no grief is the same,

but

ambivalence

to death

is.

one less rabbit in the garden

there was a garden

beside

the air conditioner unit,

next to the hose,

and the electric

meter

box.

a small square of soil

where

he planted tomatoes

and peppers,

lettuce.

i'd find him there

in the spring,

knees in the wet

dirt,

deep in thought.

and despite the wire fence

the rabbits

by mid-summer

found a way in.

a fat brown and three

little friends.

we never asked him

where

the meat came from

when he made paella.

we knew.

and just like that

a few

bins and boxes should do it

for the papers

and personal items.

a dozen

large

black trash bags,

some Lysol

and

scrub pads.

some spot carpet

cleaner

and a few

strong men to carry

out the big

furniture

to a dump bound truck.

there's your life for

you.

here and gone.

just

like that.

and the oil painting

of a ship

on the wall, does anyone

want it?

the carrier pigeons

the family grape

vine

is fun

to follow, one whispered

word into

one ear,

travels

fast across the miles,

faster

than any

wire,

or telegraph,

text,

or phone call.

carrier pigeons have

never had

nothing on

this family.

the slight of hand

we are easily

fooled by the slight of the hand,

the card

trick,

by the smile

and sweet words

from

a magician's mouth.

we are careless

with our

love and admiration,

oblivious so often

from the entire

act.

but then what?

i should

run out and buy something.

eat something.

do something

to make me

feel better.

maybe i'll scrub the house

clean

until there's not

a speck

of dirt or guilt

or sorrow to be found.

but then what?

wishful thinking

the ice

will melt, harsh words

will

be forgotten.

new snow

will cover the troubles

that

have come

and gone.

grudges held

onto

will

slip away.

it will be spring again,

won't it?

the uneventful end

not every life

is noble,

crowned or blessed

with

gold

or stature.

for most there is no

plan,

no road

to success. 

no fame is ever reached.

it's just

surviving, taking

and giving

love

when it appears.

trying

your best and often

failing,

until the

uneventful end.

the enormous enchilada

is it guilt

turning my stomach, 

keeping

me awake

into the late

night hours,

or the guacamole

and peppers

i ate

with my 

enormous enchilada?

maybe both.

it usually it is.

flying cold chickens

i stare

at the cold chicken on the shelf

in the harsh

light

of my artic fridge.

last nights meal.

the fat

jelled around

the carcass.

how far could i throw

this bird

into the woods

out the back door

and over

the fence

for the fox

to feast?

thirty yards is my

best guess.

it's hard to leave

it's hard

to quit the job,

or love

gone sour,

even

if you despise the work

you do,

the people you work

with,

the person asleep

beside you.

it's home.

it's where you go

each

day to make your crust

of bed,

to sleep and eat.

it's hard

to let go.

it's better if they do it

to you.

everything beautiful

as i trim

the stem of this long

rose,

and find

the thorn

embedded

in my skin, the blood

trickling

crimson,

i wonder,

can it be true

that with

everything beautiful

comes pain?

what would silence mean?

so much

noise

i make with the twist

of knobs,

the push

of buttons.

i fill the air with sound.

the empty

rooms with noise,

for what would

silence mean?

i'd rather

not think about that

now.

idle hands

what to do

with these idle hands,

these

wandering eyes.

what words

will fall

from my snowy brain.

will i go

dark or light today?

i'll start

with curds and whey,

the sharp knife

i'll save

for later in the day.

your silent joy

your

cat like smirk,

and half

Madonna smile

at my

troubles, tells me all

i need to know

about you.

the silence of your joy

is disturbing,

it delivers the chance

of love

a deadly

blow.

untying her knots

she cursed

like a sailor

and tied knots like a sailor.

so many

nights she left

me,

gnawing

at the ropes

trying to get free

once more.

when you're far or near

i put

my hand in the fire.

that's what

i do

when i call

or visit you.

i haven't learned my

lesson

and probably

never will,

pain or pleasure,

i seem

to want both

when you're

far

or near.

waiting for joy to fall

i see

a red cheeked kid

standing

out on

the sidewalk,

his mouth is open to the sky.

he's waiting,

waiting

for joy

to fall down

in the form

of snow.

what's better than a snowy

Monday

to a child

who hasn't done

his homework.

we're here for you

we've made

too much food, please come

over.

we've built a fire

to keep you warm,

we have the best chair

waiting.

there's plenty to drink.

no need to be of good

cheer, if you're sad

we'll wipe

your tears away,

please,

bring your troubles

with you.

we're here,

no need to knock, or bring

anything,

just you.

just you.

just you. we're here

for you.

come on over, come in.

keeping up with the neighbors

it's strange

to see

chickens in the yard

next

door.

the rooster crowing

at the crack

of dawn.

i see him

collecting eggs

in the morning

from the hen

house.

i can top that.

i get a cow, but

now what?

a stool and a bucket?

gentle squeezing?

i think

not.

scotch on the rocks

it's an old

ice

tray,

circa 1958,

handed down

by my

father.

the one

he used when drinking

to forget

what he couldn't

forget.

it's the metal kind that

you have

to pull the handle back

with all your

strength

and might

before the cubes come

tumbling out.

sometimes you

can't let

go of things, being

the sensitive man

you are.

the cars i left behind

there was the car

that i left on the side of the road,

out of gas.

the car

that when it rained

the trunk

would fill with water.

the car

that wouldn't start,

the one

that the wheels shook

when

i drove it on the highway,

the car

that leaked gas,

the one i couldn't get the smell

out of.

there was the car

that was stolen,

the one that had the window

cracked.

the car with torn seats,

a broken mirror,

the one with the headlights

pointing left.

the car i drove

to the drive-in theater.

the car i lost my virginity in.

the car i dragged empty beer cans

behind

after the first wedding.

the cars with flat tires.

the car i washed and waxed

every Saturday.

the car i fixed.

the car i couldn't fix.

the car i have now 

that i can't figure out

what all the buttons

are for.

who wants that?

who wants

the old

girlfriend to still be pretty?

no one

that i know.

we want

to see them limping

down

the street, bedraggled

and poor,

blemished

and weak.

we don't want them

more blonde

than before,

healthy as a horse,

we prefer 

not to witness them

riding

in a Lamborghini,

waving

and laughing,

from the passenger seat.

all of your Joe's and Mary's

of course

the world

will end.

and all that we hold dear

and true

to our

hearts will disappear

with it,

but why worry.

that's a long way off?

right?

so eat

drink and kiss

with gratitude all

of your

Joe's and

Mary's.

just one night

as i sink

into the east river

with a

cement block tied to my

ankle.

i think back

on my life,

especially the last

twenty-four hours

with a girl

named Lucinda.

she wasn't lying

about her

mob connections,

or her brother

Joey.

and as i slip down

into the cold murky

water,

i see the city waking

up

to a pink sunset.

i wave goodbye

to Lucinda

while she waves back 

from the pier.

the white field

the field

is white with last nights snow.

there are white

mountains

beyond it.

i start.

one foot before

the next.

i sink to my knees.

will there be an end to it?

will

i know it when i

get there?

it doesn't matter.

nothing matters.

it's the walk

that counts.

but less so than yesterday.

you look familiar, do i know you?

i bumped

into her coming out of the shower,

soaking wet,

her hair

matted

on her head,

her make up washed

away,

her glasses on,

and a towel

wrapped around her

bones

and flesh

where a shiny black

dress

once hung.

oh, excuse me, i said.

do i know you?

not yet,

she said.

almost, but not yet.

one more for the road

being inebriated,

was sort of cool, being tipsy,

and wobbly

in the late

night

hours with

happy hour turning into

one a.m.

at the blink

of an eye.

one more for the road?

one last

dance or kiss,

or song to sing

before the lights go

up

and the place closes.

how we survived those

years,

i'll never know.

the word on the street

we'll survive.

we always do, right?

we'll

get past this.

whether cold or heat.

flood

or drought.

we'll find

a way to keep going,

but take my

hand,

the word on the street

is that it's

easier with two.

when meeting out of context

i see my

dentist coming out of the coffee shop.

she's dressed to nines,

all decked out

on my

last dime.

i wave

and say hello, but she

doesn't recognize me, so i open

my mouth

as wide as i can

and mumble,

letting drool

roll down my chin,

and then she says, oh, yes,

hello there,

three crowns,

a bridge and four fillings.

how are you?

the new car salesman

i think back

to every car or truck

i've ever

purchased

and think if there

was one,

just one,

a single transaction where

it all went

as planned,

with no underhanded

shenanigans.

no lying, no cheating,

no extra charges.

i count zero.

when i've driven away

in the new

vehicle,

i've always felt

that i've been taken,

but vowing to myself,

never again.

our original weight

we grow

into our clothes.

we need room in our

shoes,

our shirts

and pants.

we're growing up and out,

in all directions.

and then

that stops

at some point,

and we go the other way,

heading back towards

our original

weight.

the early morning stretch

as i lie

on the kitchen floor, doing

my early

morning stretching,

while waiting

for the coffee to boil,

i hear a series

of serious cracks in my

back

and shoulder.

breathe, i tell myself.

just breathe. but

my knees sound like crickets

and my

neck

refuses to turn from side

to side like

it used to.

it doesn't help when the cat

and dog

come by,

one on my spine and the other

licking my

face

growling for a snack.

lost in the funhouse

of course

drama

is more fun, it's more exciting,

to have

a crazy person

in your life.

crazy in the head,

crazy in bed,

as they say.

why not have

the ups and downs,

the walking on eggshells,

the rollercoaster

ride

of instability,

the fun house of

a mental disorder.

you never

know who they'll be today,

and neither do

they.

the old key in the shed

i hear you

in the kitchen, cracking eggs

into a skillet.

i smell

the bacon

and coffee.

there's music too.

the window is open,

birds

are chirping,

and the blender

is making

juice.

who are you?

do i know you?

did i leave the door unlocked

again,

or did you find

the old key

i left hanging in the shed?

a short visit maybe

in which

age, which era of time

would

you be happier in.

the dark

ages,

the renaissance,

the fifties,

when the world was black

and white,

the roaring

twenties perhaps,

or maybe when

dinosaurs roamed

the earth

biting legs.

would you look good

in a white

wig like GW,

or in a top hat,

like Abe.

could you be a minstrel

or a court

jester

in ole England

with the guillotine

and saucy maids, or

maybe an Egyptian

with a Siamese cat

back

in the Cleopatra days.

this pill will solve everything

if you can't sleep,

they have a pill,

just swipe your card.

fat,

no problem, here's

a needle

stick it in,

stick it anywhere.

unwell,

step right up,

sign

here and there,

take two in the morning

two at night.

nervous

and anxious,

come over here and stare

up into the light.

bend over

and say ahhh.

going bald,

unsightly skin,

the jimmy leg,

drink this, rub it on,

we can help you,

we can fix anything.

we are your friend.

the mid-life crisis

i keep

thinking that this must be

what

a middle age

crisis feels like.

the angst

and uncertainty,

the feeling

that it's all slipping

away too fast,

but if i do the math,

that would mean

i would have to live

to be a hundred and forty,

which would

put me into

a biblical category.

although

Moses did sit behind me

in Geometry.

suspicion

when

she used to search

my pockets,

my coats,

my desk drawers for

clues,

for money?

for what i was never

quite

sure of,

i'd leave her notes

to find.

not here,

i'd say,

or here either,

keep looking, then

i'd draw

a smiley face and tell

her, keep

searching, sweetheart,

maybe next

time.

check this off my list

i make

my bed a few minutes 

before

going to bed.

i put on

clean sheets

and fluff

the pillows

just so,

and then

the careful final

fold.

i feel

good about this.

it was on my

long list of things

to do.

and now at last

one of them has

been accomplished.

a religious quest

i see a woman

standing

outside in the cold grass.

she's been

there all day,

and now the sun has set.

she's alone

and facing my window.

she glows like the statue

of Mary,

my mother

had on her dresser.

i raise my hand to her,

but there

is no response,

no wave

in return.

she's motionless

in the wind.

only her red hair

moves side to side

she reminds me of no

one,

she reminds me

of everyone.

she removes her dress

so that i can

see her pale

body.

the curve of her breasts,

the length

of her legs.

it's what all women do

when they want

love, i suppose,

when they want forever

to occur,

but this is just a guess.

it's easier now

it's easier now

to let go of slights from

long

ago,

to forget

the injuries acquired

in love

and game.

it's easier now to be

wise,

to be kind,

to accept the now,

to welcome

each tomorrow

without

blame.

if only that flight of stairs,

i'm about to

climb,

were the same.

a night at the Bijou

we settle

into our seats at the movie

theater.

it's forty dollars

later, but we're

excited to be out

and about

to the big screen show.

we have

pop corn

and soda

in hand as we awkwardly

remove

our coats and hats,

our scarves

and get settled in.

we're on the aisle seats,

the number nine

seat and

number ten. row G.

the place goes dim

as the previews

begin

and then more people arrive.

excuse me,

excuse me they say, pardon

us,

as they squeeze by.

we have to stand up,

and do it

all over again

then again.

someone begins to cough

and talk on

their phone.

a woman in the middle has

to suddenly go to

the bathroom.

a pregnant

woman

is having bigger issues

as she holds her belly

and climbs

over the rows,

the man behind me has

enormous boots

that keep kicking my chair.

i notice

that it smell like ammonia

and cabbage

in here. then

someone from the balcony

screams fire.

next time i think we'll wait

for Netflix.

is there a note explaining why?

we go in

with boxes, enormous

plastic

bins.

the end has arrived.

what books

do we take?

what clothes, what rings

or watches.

those pictures

on the wall?

who wants them?

there's milk in the ice

box.

do we pour it out?

there's a sandwich

on the counter.

stiffened 

with time.

someone turn the oven

off

and open a window.

see if you can find

a note

explaining why.

don't make me beg for it

it's cold very cold.

the engine

won't turn over.

the car won't start,

i keep cranking it,

pumping the pedal,

talking sweetly

to it, whispering into

her ear.

come on baby, come on,

turn over.

here we go, Betty.

don't make me beg

for it.

but there's no juice

in the battery.

yes, i call her Betty.

i've named the car after

my ex-wife,

because they are so

much alike

on a cold frosty day.

the soft warm summer land

i believed

that if i ran across that yellow

field

that i

would be somewhere else,

hidden

from the world.

i just needed to let

go of

my mother's hand,

and run.

run through

the high grass,

the oats, the rye,

the soft

warm bed

of summer land.

not done with them yet

we often

raise

the dead with words.

praising them

beyond

measure,

remembering

those good times,

or we

bury

them even deeper

with a dark

shoveled memory

here

or there.

we're not quite done

with them

yet.

we remember strangely

what they

said,

what they did,

for better or worse.

i can't escape you

i go

into the empty room,

and you

are there.

i climb

the stairs,

i pull the ladder down

from that attic,

i go

into poorly lit

room

below the roof,

and you are there too.

i try

the cellar,

but i see you in the

damp

corner

beside the stacks,

the boxes

of old news.

i have to leave the house

to escape you,

but then, 

there in the sunlight,

beside me,

i see your shadow.

we've hardly swept the confetti

another

day,

another bomb,

another

bullet

another news cycle

of tragedy.

a new

year,

a new fear.

we've hardly swept

up

the confetti

and away we go again.

business as

usual.

there's no

stopping

evil,

no stopping

the demons.

boys class math while the girls played volleyball

what was

the value of x,

this y, this z,

this

ab squared.

what were these

numbers

and letters

between the equal

sign, for what purpose

did we divide

and then multiply.

and dear lord

what about Pi?

what was

the square

roots of our young

and 

questioning

lives?

poor Mr. Reber at

the chalkboard,

trying so

hard to teach our

girl distracted

minds,

while they lunged

at the volleyball

outside.

an early morning portrait of you

i can't help but think of Picasso

or Matisse

when i see

the curve of you

in the morning,

your long leg hanging out

from the pink

sheets.

the twist of you,

one arm

unseen, your pale body

in slumber,

the morning light and

bright

clock with

red

blinking numbers.

and when the cat appears

to curl

beside you, it's face

becoming yours.

it's finished.

here's a shovel, start digging

i can be

kind,

or cruel, impatient,

loving

and rude.

i've got it all in me.

name

a sin,

name a trouble.

you won't have to dig

far

to find the worst

of me,

the dirt floor,

the rubble.

but i think

there's a diamond

in there too.

and if you stick around

long enough,

and dig hard, 

maybe you'll see

a little of that shine

coming through.

before i lie down

before i lie down,

i need to tell you

something,

i need to tell you

that i won't

sleep well tonight.

i can feel

the ocean in me,

a quiet storm.

it's not one thing

or another.

there's nothing i can

pin it on.

i just know, that sleep

will be hard

to come by,

that's all you need to know,

now kiss me

goodnight

and close your eyes.

no matter where you've been

no

matter where you go,

or where

you've been,

the wonder of the trip,

and all you've

seen,

you can't wait

to get home.

it's not a castle, or

a penthouse suite,

a mansion

on the hill.

it's not the taj mahal,

it's just

your humble abode,

a place

where your love and you

can sleep

in peace.

safe and warm.

i'm not angry anymore

i take it back,

all of

those things i said about you,

and more.

i take them

back.

i'm not

angry with you

anymore,

but

don't get the wrong idea.

this isn't

an invitation

to return,

it's not forgiveness

either,

i'm just tired of hating

you,

i can't carry

that toxic weight anymore.

leave those boots alone

i don't want to talk about

my boots,

the old muddy

pair

in the closet.

the brown ones

that i can't seem

to throw away.

i don't want to remember

those times.

just leave them

in there

with the dirt all dried,

who needs

to go there?

i'm way past them now.

i'm in a different

life.

write me something

write me

something. go on.

put into

words

how you feel, write

me a song,

a poem.

something i can hold

on to

when it's cold

and raining,

when there's no

fire

to feel.

tell me, go on,

be the poet you claim to be.

write me something.

here's a pen.

be kind and

write something for me.

she never said it with words

this ain't love,

she told me, it's convenience.

i'll be moving

along

in no time.

just as soon as the next

train

arrives.

but she never said this

with words,

no, that would

be unkind,

instead,

she said it with her kisses,

or lack thereof,

so far from spring

i could see

that he was wearing his

January

face.

the long frown,

the whitened

brow,

the ice

and frost of winter

upon him.

so far spring from we are,

he whispered.

i don't believe that i shall

ever see it

again.

the early morning triage

i take my early

morning

triage

of pains

as i slide out of bed.

which knee hurts worse.

the back,

the neck,

the arm, the stiffness

of feet

and fingers.

which one shall i treat

first

with a wrap,

or pill,

an ointment for

my chest.

or shall i just turn

the shower

on cold, full blast?

and be

done with them all

in thirty minutes

or less?

a taste for the new

i no

longer have a favorite color.

it used

to be blue or some

shade of blue,

indigo

would often do

when asked,

my closet is full

of blue,

but now

i'm friends with green

and red,

even yellow

or brown will strike

my fancy.

each day is different now,

my tastes

in many things have changed,

i guess

i know that you know

i know you know

that i know

that you

know that i'm on to you.

but let's

not talk about that,

okay?

let's move on,

and pretend that all

is well.

let's march through

the darkness of

another day.

there are ghosts

there are ghosts.

i have

put

my arm into the sleeve

of cold air

and pulled it out,

as the dog

stood barking madly,

with upraised

hair.

i have felt the presence

of the other

side.

and sometimes i see

it in your

shadow,

following me,

but wordless,

stride for stride.

which wink is that?

is there

something in your eye,

smoke,

or the sting of

an onion,

or medicine?

or are you winking

at me,

at last

in the mood

for fun?

but the year is young

i go back

on three of my five

new years resolutions

by nine am

on January first.

i eat

a donut,

i text Betty,

and i drink three cups

of coffee

spiked

with Kalua.

two more resolutions

to go,

but the year is young.

orange chicken and rice

i stare

into the abyss of the ice

box.

frozen pea

and eggs,

ketchup

and mustard.

an onion on its last

legs.

i think

it's Chinese tonight

dear,

shall we get dressed

and go out?

no? too cold?

okay,

let me call ahead

for delivery.

orange chicken and rice?

yes?

and two egg rolls?

let's pretend it never happened

by the way,

what happened last night,

didn't happen,

or at least let's pretend

that it didn't.

let's call

it not a mistake, but an 

unfortunate

turn of events.

let's blame it on new

years eve,

on champagne and

celebration.

let's blame it on loneliness

and the mistletoe

hanging over

the door frame,

or us being the last

two standing,

as the crowd drifted

away.

and by the way what should

i do with the things

you left behind.

your purse, your shoes,

your handbag,

your negligee.

i can fix this, trust me

perhaps

i can glue this broken thing

back

together.

i can fit the pieces

like

a puzzle

into what it was before,

minus

the cracks

and shards

that are lying on

the floor.

i can repair the damage

of us.

truly i can.

trust me.

no need for you to walk

out the door.

why go anywhere else?

the pigeons

are

fat in this city, and so

are we

wobbling from

store to store,

swiping cards,

buying things

we don't need.

the pigeons never

fly south

or north, like we do,

they're

here for good,

centuries of them

in their

grey jackets,

hobbling on yellow claws.

they're everywhere

you look.

they live

where the rich

live,

the poor, every

neighborhood has pigeons,

on every statue,

on every ledge of every

building,

they adorn.

they know

they have it good here.

they hardly flinch

a feather

when you walk by them,

their beaks

gnawing on a bagel

just thrown.

baked beans over an open fire

when you

start out with nothing,

it's hard to let go

of that

state of mind.

for the rest of your life

you are stuck

on zero

no matter how much wealth

you've accumulated

over time.

a million,

two million, a billion,

it doesn't matter.

you always feel like you're

one day away

from living in a tent

behind the liquor

store and cooking beans

over an open fire

with some dude named

Jake the snake.

there's one born every minute

before we were

married

she studied my tax statements

and 401 k

and

my blue chip

stock investments,

she took note of

my real estate possessions,

cars, etc.

she couldn't

keep her

hands off of me

while she strode around

in her sheer

negligee.

she wore me out.

but the day

after the wedding,

with the ink

barely dry on the decree,

i tried to hold

her close

and nibble at her neck,

to which she said,

we just did it yesterday,

we're kind of clingy

now,

aren't we?

the party next door

i see the beer

truck

and the deli delivery van

arrive

out front.

deliveries are being made

to the house

next door.

a DJ

appears with his

sound equipment.

i suspect

a new years eve party

going on tonight.

i check my

mailbox, my phone,

but nothing,

no invite.

i never should have reported

them

for their barking

dog.

it's okay, though.

i have a hat,

and a cowbell

and Betty coming over

with some

eggnog.

could you close that door, i can hear her screaming

of course it's a miracle,

a wonderous

thing to behold, but

i never wanted to film

the birth of my child,

or be in the room,

like so many do

when the biscuit come

out of the oven.

i got out of there

while they held my

wife down,

screaming bloody murder,

cursing the day

i was born.

i put my phone away.

i found the waiting

room, with the other

exhausted and nervous

husbands to be my

place to wait it out.

i tapped my foot incessantly

and bit my nails

while reading

the sports page

and sipping a cup of coffee

from the hall

machine.

home for the night

i remember

my father smoking in his

big chair.

filling the room with

blue smoke.

a cigarette,

a cigar, or perhaps his pipe.

i can hear

him tap tap tapping

it against

the ashtray,

filling it with a strange

wood cherry

tobacco.

pressing it tight.

holding the flame

above

the cup

as he lit it.

we didn't seem to mind.

at least he was

home

for the night.

before the year ends

so much

to do

before the year ends.

so

much

mending of fences,

of

distant friends.

i strap

on my tool bag

of empathy

and 

regret and get to it,

the clock

is ticking,

yet again.

chasing the last leaf fallen

for an hour,

i hear

the roar, the thunderous

continual

roar

and think that maybe

a jumbo

jet

or helicopter

is hovering over the cul de sac.

so i look

out the window

and there i see a man

with a leaf

blower

on his back,

chasing the last leaf

fallen

towards his burlap

bag.

no secret ingredients here

how can

you not like someone that

has a secret

recipe,

a secret sauce,

or set of seasonings

that they can't

reveal.

it's the twinkle in the eye

that

makes you

smile.

them ribbing you,

you being

just a salt and pepper

guy.

the cold cup

distracted,

i let the cup of coffee go cold.

i've

been too busy

with

this machine,

this book

that never ends,

these words as they unfold.

but there's

more to pour,

always more.

the carrot stick girl

she was

a carrot stick kind of girl.

a rabbit

of sorts

with her lettuce

and kale,

her

probiotic juice,

her barely

getting by in her

sugarless

world.

sometimes i'd hold

her up

when the wind

blew,

tie her

to my belt,

as i ate my double

burger

from Five Guys.

no trumpets will fill the air

for many,

for most, there is no grand

announcement

of passing.

no church bell rings,

no trumpets

fill the air,

no banners are unfurled.

for most,

it's the cleaning

lady

that finds us

at the table,

next to a cold bowl

of cereal.

maybe a despondent dog

curled

by the window

in our empty chair.

let's drink, let's eat

show

no frugal hand

in this

feast.

bring to the table

more

than you can afford,

the finest wines,

the fruits

and vegetables

that are hard to find

with winter

on us,

bring me

the largest

beast.

let's show

them

how much we care

and love them.

come

the new year

will start all over

again.

but for now let's drink,

let's eat.

please, tell me more

when i hear 

your countless troubles,

as we walk,

i forget about my own,

so please

go on,

the sun has yet to set

and we have miles

to go

before we're home.

more happy faces arrive

i could paper my walls 

with the pictures you send

of your family.

the mawkish

scrawl

of hallmark cards.

with each

holiday more arrive.

faces i don't know,

from

old to small.

from birth till death,

i have them

all, even pets.

i have no guess

what to do

with the boxes

that holds them.

what is remembered

the evil one does 

is remembered,

it's cut

into stone,

while the good we

do

is written in sand,

though it outweighs

the later,

it is soon

washed away

and forgotten.

the google search

i am guilty.

i waste my time

on simple

things,

on

careless forays into

places

i don't belong.

these fingers often take

me there,

into dark

forests

full of searches,

unwise,

poisoned ivy,

thorny

bramble and twine.

why

do i bother with your

whereabouts,

when

i should be concerned

with mine?

melancholy

such a lovely

word,

melancholy is.

a pensive

state of mind, a blanket

of gloom

and clouds.

not a hint

of sun,

as rain falls and the

wind blows

loud.

savor

the light darkness

of your soul.

it will make joy

that much

better

when the skies

unfold.

neither joy or sorrow

worry not,

for these

are not tears of sorrow,

or of wretched

grief,

or for that matter

joy, no,

they are tears

that have

arrived via

the knife

and round onion

on the hardwood

board

that i lean upon

and slice.

lovingly sweet

do i tell

her about how that color

does

not suit

her nature,

does she tell me that i snore

loudly

when i sleep.

do i

eat what she cooks

despite

my not liking the taste,

does she

disagree with me

about

the books i

read,

the politics to which

i lean?

or do we go on as usual,

happily

content.

lovingly sweet?

at least that's the plan

we are

born green, salad

green,

hardly

tossed.

we know so little

of the world

we've

been dropped into.

oblivious of

what

joy,

what pain awaits.

each

day a lesson,

each

love, or hate,

each new year

we are less

and less green

and more

wise,

more mature. at least

that's

the plan.

the rising of bread

as the bread

rises

in the hot oven,

i stare

into the window where

it bakes.

i am often

looking into windows

trying

to be patient

for what's to come next,

but i can hardly

wait.

too many choices

like so much

in your

life,

you window shop

for

toys

and things,

for places to live,

for clothes

and shoes,

for even

love.

you click here

and there,

you swipe.

it's too much work.

there are too many

choices

for this one life.

what wind blew you here?

what wind

blew you here? my love.

what

convenience of catastrophes

set your

sails

to this land,

where i am?

what vows were broken,

or unmade

to have you stand

before me

with all that charm

and beauty?

you will be tonight

i was adored once

too,

she tells me

in the dying light.

i was beautiful when i was

young,

adored and loved.

we all were,

i tell her.

and you will be

tonight.

deciding what to do next

a troubled

mind

needs to walk.

a long walk in the cold

barren

woods

until you reach the lake,

that pool

of grey sky.

it's there,

in the bloom of your

breath

from walking

hard,

that you will you realize

what

to do next.

I miss the rabbit ears and three channels

VA communications sales tax,

VA state sales tax,

E-911 tax,

VA public rights of way use fee,

Verizon surcharges and fees

local license tax surcharge

VA gross receipts tax surcharge

federal universal service fee

PEG grant fees

regulatory recovery fee-federal

FiOS broadcast fee

regional sports network fee

FDV administrative charge

3 FiOS tv connections

3 set top boxes

your bundle price

and at last

your subtotal and total due.

Verizon is the devil.

let us bow our heads and pray

i know it's against

my better

judgement, but i'm a fool for love.

fourth time

is the charm,

i heard

someone say once,

or was that the third time?

but i don't get on

my bended knee

this time,

because they hurt from 50

years of playing

basketball

on a concrete slab.

i text her instead

and send her

a picture of the ring,

an old

beer can tab

i recovered from the trash.

but she says no,

i appreciate the offer,

but no.

what are you nuts?

to which i sigh and say,

at last

someone has given me

the right answer.

now let us bow our heads

and pray.

i never should have banked it all on red

before i officially retire,

after

an unfortunate trip to Las Vegas,

when i put

my entire 401k on red,

i pour

out the change from

the change

bowl.

i lift the mattress for

the cash

i've hidden

under the far corner.

i go to the safe

and take out the rainy

day money.

i separate the cushions

of the couch

and chair,

then go down to the washing

machine and dryer

to find what

other coins might be there.

i empty

the pockets of all my pants

and shirts,

coats.

i stack them up

on the counter,

and look at my life's savings,

i think i can do this,

if i don't eat

anymore and go live

in the woods

with the fox and bear.

finding the opposite of me

about once

a year,

she tells me about her new love.

how she's moved

on from me.

we're in the friend zone now,

she says.

she goes into great details

about how

much money

he makes,

how large his house is,

his fancy

cars

and swimming pool.

she tells me where he's

taking

her next week

on a cruise.

i'm happy for her.

i truly am.

after me, she now knows

what true love

can be.

i'm glad to have helped

her out,

giving her a comparison.

club soda and lime

i milk the drink

until the ice

melts and waters it

down

to nothing but

the taste

of lime.

i could drink three of

these

in an hour

in the old days,

the glory days, as they

say,

but just one

now

is all it takes, 

i can't wait to get home

where

bed awaits

when the Godly mask slips

she's a fine

woman,

a pillar of the community.

a stellar

role model to the younger

generation.

she goes to church

four times

a week,

ladles soup at the shelter.

her children

are gold,

her grandchildren too.

she preaches

the good word and

exudes love wherever

she goes.

every other word that comes

out of her mouth,

is praise the Lord.

so it's shocking

when she tells me what act

she'll perform on

my father's grave

when he dies.

train hits man on tracks

the man,

hit by a train

heading north, hardly

had a chance,

since he

refused to step

aside

and get out of the way.

he could hear

the whistle blowing,

hear the rumble

of the wheels

against the steel

tracks, but no.

he kept walking just

the same.

he spent

his whole life

being careful,

avoiding

falls,

and cuts, bruises,

scrapes

and burns, and now

this,

engine number five

running

him over.

is it true, or just you

watch

enough news and podcasts

and

YouTube

videos

and soon

everyone looks like

a nefarious

character,

up to no good,

walking around

the lot,

making you the prey

before

the attack.

is it true?

or just you?

i'm on my way, make room

as the snow

deepens

and the pot boils

on the stove,

i see you curling deeper

and deeper

into the couch,

wrapped

in holiday 

sleeping clothes.

i'll be there soon,

as soon

as the water

boils

and i carry to you your

cup of tea

and plate

of Christmas cookies.

hold that thought,

my dear,

i'm on my way.

make room.

picking Jake up at 7-11

it was a few years ago

when

i drove

Jake to the hospital because

he was spitting up

blood.

lung cancer that was spreading

like a wildfire.

he died a year

later,

on Christmas day.

i visited him

that Christmas eve

and brought him a pack

of cigarettes

and a pint of 
Southern comfort,

his favorite.

he asked

me if i had any winter

work

coming up.

he'd be out of there in no

time.

just as soon as they took

the bandages

off that were

wrapped around his head

because of the brain

operation.

i told him, sure.

of course.

i'll pick you up at the 7-11

around eight.

the day after new years.

don't be late.

the ticking watch

to say my uncle

Joe

was cheap, or frugal,

or tight

with his money would

be an understatement.

he washed

his car only when 

it rained,

read by candlelight

and hand

washed his clothes

in the sink.

on his death

bed, with only

an hour left to live

he negotiated a price

for the watch he was

wearing, and sold it

to me. cash only.

so much to do, so little time

as i lie

in bed, staring up at the fan.

i think

about buying

a new fan.

how old

is this fan?

it's dirty.

and then my thoughts

drift to other

things.

i hope that

there's not

a nuclear holocaust

this year.

there's so much i need

to do

around this house.

sending out holiday kisses

i text Sally,

but i meant to text Diane,

i send

her a kiss

emoji.

which makes her husband

angry.

i say

whoops,

sorry, wrong person.

so i try again,

this time

it's Maureen,

an ex

who's blocked me.

after a few more tries,

i send out kisses to

Lilly,

Marge and Francine,

with no reply

back,

i give up.

i need to clean out

my phone again.

apparently, everyone 

has moved on,

but me.

watching the ball drop alone

i keep waiting

for my invitations to the new years

eve parties.

i check my

mailbox, my laptop,

my phone.

nothing.

not a word,

no rsvp notes.

no texts,

no calls.

what's going on

with my dwindling circle

of friends?

have i fallen out of favor

with everyone?

my holy baby steps

i drop off a few

cans

of beans,

and assorted vegetables

at the church

drop off

box.

sweet corn and peas.

i feel good about myself.

not saintly,

but

it puts a spring in

my holy step.

and then

i see the cookies and

baked

cakes,

the pies

being carried in by others.

flowers

and frozen turkeys.

it makes me sad.

maybe i'm not as good

as i think i am.

those years are done

everyone

is home this week.

the schools are closed,

the worker bees

that usually leave at five

a.m.

are here.

i see their cars,

their trucks, their teenage

children

are playing

music

next door.

i used to see them on their

tricycles

out front,

when they were young,

the day after Christmas,

i'd wave,

they'd laugh and smile,

cheeks red

and happy in the winter

sun.

but

these days, things have

changed,

if i'm lucky,

i might get a nod,

or grunt.

but little eye contact.

those years are done.

a thread of wood

it takes

an embedded splinter,

a thread

of wood

below the skin

to awaken

you

to this world.

the red

swell of infection.

the bite

of life

gone wrong.

how fragile we are

even when

we meant no harm

with this nail,

this hammer.

the NYT blurb said it will change your life

i either hate

the book

right away after reading the first

dozen lines

or so,

or like it

and press on.

love

comes at the end,

if i make it that far.

no matter what the blurbs

say,

no matter how much

attention

the author has received,

or the book

praised,

i have to take a bite

and then decide whether

to eat

and chew the entire thing.

if a movie is already

in production

about it, then

i'm done before i start.

heads or tails

the coin

that's flipping in the air,

has been

up there for a very

long time.

maybe fifty years

or so.

when it finally comes

down,

maybe i'll make

a decision on what to

really do

with my life.

it's not a straight line to us

of course

there are smart animals,

elephants

and dogs,

chimps

and dolphins.

they know you by

sight.

they know their names,

some can count,

or sing,

some can find

their way

home

from a thousand miles

away,

they have instincts.

but if you tell your cat

or dog,

or pet gorilla

that the second

Tuesday

of next month,

you're going out for 

ice-cream,

they won't know what your

talking about.

so let's not get too carried

away

with this similar

DNA chain.

if only i had a secret to tell you

i wish i had a few

secrets to tell you,

or two,

a handful, or even 

just one

to tease

you with, to whisper

half of it

into your ear, and have

you longing for more.

it might bring us closer

together

in some nefarious

way.

i really wish i had

a secret, just one

would do.

red birds on snow

like blood

on wings, the red birds

light

down

upon the snow.

they flutter

into

the blue basin in the yard,

into the pooled melt

of iced

water.

it's where i  would go too

if you

were there,

to feed me.

socks and slippers

it's hard

to buy gifts for the wealthy,

for the middle class,

or even

for the mildly poor.

everyone has a flat

screen

tv these days,

a blender,

a computer,

a phone,

shoes and clothes.

and who reads books

anymore?

so what's left to give?

socks

and slippers

are my choice of 

Christmas gifts.

maybe a card from Target.

taking in the wrong peeps for the holidays

after a two-week visit,

at last

they leave, the holiday

crew

from Idaho.

the two kids,

the baby,

mom and dad.

uncle willy

and the dog, Ghee.

i ask my

wife,

as we stand at the door

and wave,

how exactly are

you related to these people?

i'm not

she said,

i thought they were

your peeps.

it's the thought that counts

when she

died,

we all wrote a tearful note

to her

and stuffed it into a bottle,

we put the cork

on and threw

it into the sea.

it didn't go far though,

and came

back to shore

in the grey winter waves.

finally,

i swam out into

the freezing

water

with the bottle and tossed

it towards

France

with a mighty heave.

we found it again

the next day,

talking after the show is over

it's a mask

of sorts,

a costume of goodness.

a white

robe

a painted smile,

but then

it slips

and falls to the stage

floor,

dark words come

out.

it's what you

suspected

all along.

there's the show, and

then

there's after

the show,

when

the curtain closes

and no one else

is around.

no patching here

like a tire

with a nail in it.

things

go flat,

but you keep driving

anyway,

tearing

the rubber off the road,

getting

down to the rim,

where

life screeches to a halt.

i'm sorry, but

we can't patch up

everything,

my old friend.

when they want to turn the page and you don't

it's usually the guilty,

the shamed,

the ones caught red handed

in their game

that plead

to move on.

let's turn the page.

let's forgive and forget

like it never

happened.

come on, let's live in

the now,

let's be friends again

let's erase the board

with a new slate,

let's get along.

so much we still don't know

so what

will he leave behind

for us,

when

it's time?

will there be gold

in a pot

well hidden,

letters

written and received.

maybe postcards

from a loved one,

unknown,

or a notebook

full of rhyme.

in what closet will we

find

the secret

of his soul,

under what bed will

lie the clue of

who he really was

or wasn't.

there's so much of him

we still

don't know.

we're halfway home

we're halfway

home

down the long-wet road,

the snow

is soft

as the wipers thump

back and forth

across the white

diamonds

falling.

we're not late,

we're not on time,

we're just driving,

tired, we miss

our bed,

our quiet time alone.

we're halfway home.

early Christmas morning

the dog

loved Christmas.

he remembered, he knew

that in

that stack of gifts

below

the tree were things for him.

a ball,

some treats, a new leash

or bowl,

a rubber bone.

but he couldn't read

the tags,

so he went at it all

until each

was opened.

our heads in the clouds

i remember

kissing

some girls until my face hurt.

their cheeks

would be flush

with the brush

of my new whiskers.

our teeth

would clanging

against each other,

a our tongues

grew sore.

they were only first base

sessions,

usually in the woods,

or in a parent's 

basement, but innocent,

and leaving us

in the clouds

and wanting more.

lorton reformatory

the notorious

violent

prison on Lorton Road,

is still

there. the walls, the guard

towers,

the barbed wire

surround,

the mess hall,

and cells,

row after to row.

but the prisoners are gone

now.

most are dead,

or grown old, shipped

off

to new dark homes.

little old ladies

and old men

in loafers

bring their paints and canvas

there,

setting up

on easels.

they paint the clouds.

they paint

the cells.

there's a room where someone

spins

a wheel

and pottery appears.

the entrance is painted

with a rainbow.

on weekends there's show.

a picnic lunch.

it's almost as if no one

ever died,

or suffered there.

i like your boots, dear

of course

i like your new boots, dear.

black

and shiny,

with a zipper up

the side,

but i also

like the short white ones,

and the red ones too,

that rise up

above your knees,

and the brown

ones

and even the green

ones

that you wear

once a year.

but it's not about the leather,

or the style,

or the cost, dear,

it's more about the leg

that's in them.

come on over here.

for better or worse, it's just wind

the wind

of change

does not push us forward,

or backwards.

it's just doing

what wind

does.

there is no good

or evil

in its stirring.

it's not 

for the better or worse.

life easier once that

is understood.

small cheer and great welcome make a merry feast

as i look

back

on the local community

trade school

giving

night classes

on a variety of subjects

from photography

to gardening,

i realize now 

on this

Christmas morning

that

i made

the right choice

in taking a class not

on Shakespeare,

but on

cooking a standing,

French cut,

prime

rib roast.

the long night

troubled,

enmeshed in drama,

i couldn't sleep.

one, two,

three a.m. .

i rolled over, i moved

the pillows around.

i nudged the blinds

to look out

at the moons

half smile.

still i was far away

from sleep,

miles and miles

away from

dreams.

i knew

i had it coming

to me

for so many reasons,

but still i longed

to sleep.

the human cookie

she'd be

covered in flour

as she made

trays of Christmas cookies

in the hot

kitchen.

she'd be sprinkled

with

sugar

and cinnamon.

all in her hair

and eyes,

on her face.

eggs

and cream were

spilled on her sleeves

and apron.

if you stuck her into

an oven

she'd be baked

and ready

for eating

in no time.

the prodigal cow

it's a long

stretch of fence that keeps

the cows

in.

we walk through the mud

and old

snow

with our tools

to go mend the gate,

to rebuild

a few

lengths of fence.

we've lost so many cows

this year.

and so few

rarely come home

again.

holidays in south beach

we spent the week

in south beach,

a little get away between

Christmas

and the New Year.

we lay out

on the white sand

with our pina coladas,

the blue

water

at our feet.

a hot sun glimmering

down.

we tried not to look in either

direction

at the women lying

beside us in their

thongs,

topless and buttered

up with coconut oil 

for the holy week.

one red glove

it's one

red glove on the snowy

bank,

lying

there without a hand

to cover,

it's left behind

by someone that's moved on,

someone

who will reach into

her pocket

and discover that it's

long gone.

we are so 

unaware of

so many things

as we move

along.

the best gift ever

at a certain point,

when

she was out walking

five miles with

two pound

dumbbells

strapped

around her ankles

to help

her wear

off the kale she just ate,

i'd rummage

through her purse,

looking for clues

of her infidelity.

but it was a waste of time,

a mistake,

i found

receipts and jewelry,

hotel keys,

and photographs.

but it didn't matter.

it was already way

too late.

she'd be gone before

the holidays.

i could hardly wait.

holiday warfare

family drama

erupts

on the home front.

it's the holidays,

so what else

is new.

a sister recalls the time

i cut

off the head

of her favorite

doll

with a hacksaw.

but she left my baseball

glove

in the yard

to be stolen,

signed by Mickey Mantle,

leather and brand new,

so what was i to do.

it's a free for all at this

point,

as the wine gets poured,

the cocktails

made,

the desserts dug into.

old wounds surface,

hard words once said

forty years ago

are suddenly

repeated verbatim.

my mother sits there

at the head of the table,

amused,

happy to have us all

together once more.

there's no place like home

for the holidays.

the cost of poetry

when she drank,

she liked

to read poetry, her own,

and others,

but never mine.

she was selfish that way.

but she'd

stand up

in a crowded room,

take the floor

and would perform

as if Dylan Thomas

on a rage,

quoting word for word,

what she

had memorized.

there was applause

of course,

and more drinks bought.

sometimes

she wouldn't come home

that night.

poetry has its cost.

and then the thought passes

i wake up,

and think, i should get a dog.

i have more free time

now.

a new dog.

what fun

would that be?

i can use the old leash

still hanging

on the door,

i could wash out

the old bowls,

the sweaters

that the other dog

once wore.

i could

treat him better than

the last one.

more treats, more toys,

more walks,

more bones.

no longer would i be

taking walks

or sleeping

alone. i'd be home

every night

to be with him,

not waiting sadly

in the window.

and then the thought passes.

dying on a pot of gold

they tell

you at an early age to save

your money,

don't spend it all

on Friday night.

put some away for a

rainy day.

invest in the market.

save, save, save.

don't spend all your

wages

on love.

or gambling,

or shiny things that

will rust

and fade.

so you do. and then

you sit there on your

pile of gold,

wishing you'd had more

fun, more

adventures,

but the hourglass has

trickled

down to its final grains.

a country cupcake in hand

he used

to dance at Nick's, the country

western

bar,

on Pickett.

he was the king of the dance

floor. but

before those

years, he did the hustle,

and was

proficient

in disco dancing

in the clubs in D.C.,

but then,

it became two step,

and line dance

at Blackie's and Deja vu.

i can see him now

in his chaps

and white hat,

his big belt buckle

holding up his tight jeans,

doing the 

Dosey doe,

gliding across the sawdust

floor

with a little

country cupcake from

down the road.

a box of life

as i sort

through the box of photos

and Christmas

cards,

that's been

in the cellar,

stored under other boxes

of Christmas

lights and ornaments.

the tree stand,

and moth balls.

i sit on the cold

slab

floor of the laundry room,

and sift

through the years

of when

we were young.

when the world was young.

and everyone

we loved

was living, available

by visit, or by

phone.

the winter journey

the last we saw

of him,

was a posting on Facebook.

he was in

his kayak,

wearing a yellow life preserver,

and holding

a paddle in

his hand.

he was about to shove off

into the sea,

the channel

taking him to southern

shores.

he was for the most

part

indestructible,

a strong mind,

an even stronger man,

though

white of beard.

but we're not worried.

he'll turn up again

as he always does,

in spring.

sugarplum and fairies

it's not

all

sugarplums and fairies,

candy

and cake

merriment

of all sorts.

for many it's a dark

reminder

of loss,

of being alone.

being

frightened

or worse.

sometimes the Christmas

carols

and

the joy of others

around you,

will make

you break.

the secret of a long marriage

everyone

asks

the elderly couple who

have been

married

for fifty years,

what's their secret

for this long

and fruitful marriage.

the wife laughs,

then

goes on

and on about how

they've stayed

together

through hard times

and tears.

she barely takes the time

to take a breath of air,

and then

it's the man's turn,

who smiles gently 

and pulls 

the cotton balls

from his ears.

as the train pulls away

leaving

is harder than arriving.

the day

behind

you,

the night before you.

the train

pulling out

of the station.

a final kiss,

a final wave farewell

and on

we go.

will we meet again,

will

say the words

i love you, or until

tomorrow?

i don't know.

taking the subway

we would

always

take the subway into

the city.

and there were always

crazy people

onboard.

a token took you

in any

direction,

as far as you wanted to go.

never saw a cop

of any

sort.

but we read, we did

our homework,

we stared out the window

and bundled

up

from the city cold.

no need

for eye contact,

or small talk.

we just wanted to get

to where

we were going

unscathed, unbothered.

alive, ready

to fight another

day. just close the doors

and let it roll.

we can fix this

i'd see my father

out on the street staring

at the engine

of his car,

the hood up on the blue

Chevrolet.

sometimes he had a cup

of coffee with

him,

some tools,

maybe a small radio

would be playing.

i'd get dressed and go

out and stare

into the engine with him.

happy as a clam

to do so.

we can fix this, i'd

quietly say.

stay away from mirrors

i used to be taller,

thinner,

i had more

hair.

more energy,

more

teeth.

better hearing

and vision.

less wrinkles,

but ask me if i care?

less is

more

at this stage of the game.

i just

stay away

from mirrors.

the mega party church

it was a mega church.

an enormous

cavern

with a good sound system.

plush seating

and no

kneelers

like in the old days

where you

knelt and prayed.

no, here you stood up

and sang.

you threw your arms

into the air

and shook

like a basket of fries

in hot oil.

no need to pass the basket

around,

here

they put an app on your

phone

for automatic withdrawals

and deposits.

there was no talk of sin,

or redemption.

no mention of the blood

of Christ,

no talk of shame.

it was more

about live your best life,

prosperity and fun.

smile

and be happy.

come often.

come again.

bring a friend.

let's play victim

pick a card

any card, hold it up

and stick

it to your forehead.

pick what

victim you identify with

and cry to

the world with it.

i was abandoned

as a child,

i was poor, i was neglected.

look at the color

of my skin

or where i'm from.

how short i am.

play victim.

it's easier than being

strong

and rising

from the ashes

that you imagine

and prolong.

when the mask slips

when the mask

slips

and the words

pour

out

you see

who they really are.

the shiny

dress

that they wore

has fallen

to the floor.

a mirage for the world.

they are naked now

with

no cloth to hide

their true beliefs,

their

dark soul.

one of Santa's many helpers

i was shocked,

when i snuck down the stairs,

past midnight

to see if Santa had come yet.

and saw

my mother

kissing Santa,

moving his beard aside

to slobber on his lips.

his hands,

that looked a lot like

my father's,

were tugging at her

hair

and she was making

strange noises

like she was injured

or out of breath.

she was wearing high heels

and a red satiny

dress

that barely covered

her legs.

was she really one of Santa's

helpers

all this time?

quickly i ran back up the steps

and crawled into bed

then put

a pillow over my head.

my new home in the city

i always

tell

the telemarketers that my

name

is Emily Wilson.

and that i live

at 1600 Pennsylvania

Avenue.

and yes,

i do need new windows

and 

solar panels.

sometimes when they hear

my voice,

they automatically hang up

after cursing me.

i must be on a list

of some sort,

but if it's a rookie telemarketer

i can

drag it out to close to half

an hour

or more.

this is a bad idea

i take the entire

month

of December off.

i haven't had more than five

days in a row

off from work

since i was in the sixth grade

and delivering newspapers

of the soon to be defunct

Washington Post.

i pretty much am bored out

of my mind.

i've got a severe case

of cabin fever.

i may take up knitting, or

painting by numbers

to pass the time.

i've worn a spot out on the rug

where i stand

in the morning with a cup

of coffee and stare out

into the woods.

at the grey leafless trees,

and cold blue stream

down the hill.

What's going on?

i ask

the minister, or pastor

or priest,

the man

in black

with the white collar,
why do we have to sing

these old

horrible songs

from the hymnal?

they're so long

and dreary,

dirges that sailors

may have

sung when going out

to sea

to hunt whales.

and what would you suggest?

the priest

asks me.

how about some Marvin Gaye,

or Barry White.

something we all

know the words to

and can sing.

awaiting snow

there is

the weight of the sky

at six a.m. .

the ominous

black

and blue

belly of cold rain about

to fall. but

it might be snow

this time.

the children

have opened their

mouths

and put away

their books in hope

a foot

may fall, or more.

and then the yellow

bus

pulls up.

not yet. the mother says,

now let's go,

get on board.

airing their grievances

as i come through

the door

i hear whispers in the kitchen.

the toaster

is talking

to the microwave.

it's a group discussion with

the blender

and the coffee machine.

they are talking

about me.

i lean in so that they

can't see me

and listen.

i'm tired, i hear the frying

pan say,

look at me,

all scratched and burned,

and then the disposal

chimes in,

and what about me,

he put an apple core

down my throat

just yesterday, and the day

before that

poured in a cup full of Drano.

i can't live like

this anymore.

i'm still shaking from all

the popcorn

he keeps making,

says the popcorn machine.

and then

the fridge

speaks up, have you people

ever seen what

goes on in here.

i'm a science project

with rotting fruit and vegetables.

i have a dozen

salad dressings weighing

down my shelves.

it's cold in here and the light

goes out when

he closes

the door.

summertime flowers

i like to walk

the path

through the cemetery.

they have

the best flowers there.

bushels

of yellow and reds

lying on dirt

or grass,

against an old tombstone,

mostly fresh,

great bouquets

of roses at

no spared expense.

summertime

is the best.

which concurs 

perfectly with

your birthday.

none of this is my fault

very little,

if anything, that has ever

gone wrong

in my life

has been my fault.

i can find

blame all around me.

starting with

my neglectful parents,

leaving me to be

raised by wolves,

poverty

and shyness

brought on by deep

insecurities

about every

minute of my childhood.

and then

it's the women

i attached myself to.

then the dead

end jobs paying little.

and then

the government, of course,

local

and federal,

taxes

and the man keeping me

down.

not to mention my dog,

whose

favorite bone

seems to be the one

in my arm.

the crowd going by

i see no faces

on the street

that i recognize,

nor in

the crowd,

nor in

the bustling mob

coming

up from the subway.

the known

have thinned

to a few.

a few friendly faces

that i once

knew.

but heartbreakingly,

none of them

are you.

streets of dim lights

do we

need goals, a purpose

in life,

a defined

path

of ambitious yearnings.

do we need

the stage,

the award,

the applause

and a standing ovation,

the spotlight?

or can we just go on

about our

days

in peace

and quiet

on streets of dim lights.

eating a giant turkey leg

i dream

about a roasted turkey leg,

covered

in gravy.

greasy and shiny

with crispy skin,

right out

of the oven.

i've gone to bed that hungry.

starving

for a good solid

meal

and not peanut butter crackers

before bedtime.

i hold the leg

in my hand like a Roman

Emperor

and give it a mighty bite.

the giblets and gravy

drip down

my chin

into my beard,

and then i look out the window

of my castle

and i see a flock

of turkeys in the field

limping by,

each with one leg missing.

i wake up with the feeling

that i've sinned.

i reach for

the peanut butter crackers

again.

kissing Donna Reed

there's a new

tv

up at the big store, on sale

for the holidays.

it's one hundred and three inches

wide,

the side of a wall,

with surround

sound

and the clarity

of the Hubble telescope

after they

fixed it.

it's hyper interactive.

you can actually put your

hand into it

and slap

someone on the Morning Joe

in the morning

when they say something

stupid.

you can feel and smell,

and taste

whatever

it is going on on the screen.

you can take

a bite of a waffle,

or have a sip of the drink

at someone's table.

you can actually

kiss Donna Reed on the lips

as you watch

It's a Wonderful Life

for the fiftieth time.

no resolutions

i make a long

list of new years resolutions.

every year

i sit down

and ponder what improvements

i need to attend to.

what obvious things do i need

to do

to make life easier

for me

and those around me.

specifically

the cat and dog.

but i'm stumped this year.

i've got nothing.

nothing new.

complete self awareness

i drink when

i'm happy, he'd tell me,

red eyed,

and sleepy

in the truck

as we headed off

to work.

it's the cure for all

my ailments.

i drink when i'm sad,

i drink when

i'm bored.

i drink in the morning,

at night.

it doesn't matter.

i know it will kill me,

but so what.

at least i know

that i'm falling on my

own sword.

the frost of night

bring

on the frost of night.

the glaze

of winter

shone bright by

the one

eyed moon,

the cow

and the silver spoon.

bring back

childhood

and rhyme.

the window to stare

out of

until the end

of time.

bring back their

voices,

as they turn

off the lights

and blow a kiss

while whispering

good night.

keep them alive

a little while

longer. we know

how hard they tried.

first glimpse at nudity as a child

before

i found my father's

playboy

magazines hidden

in the back

of a closet

next to his shoes,

i discovered

National Geographic

magazines

at the library

in high school.

next to a hippopotamus,

or a roaring

fire

there were

always

semi-clad tribal women

dancing

around in grass skirts

howling

at the moon.

playboy

was a step up, for sure.

the basement reading room

she was a hoarder,

this

woman i dated for a few

years

at the Chesapeake Ranch

Estates,

but i didn't mind her clutter

and firetrap

house at all.

the floors and stairways

were

filled with old

books and magazines,

clothes

and shoes

from a different era.

bent forks

and spoons, chipped

dishes

and cups. but

once i got used to the smell

of dust

and mildew,

i'd throw down one

of her horse blankets

and get lost in the basement

for hours

reading old Life Magazines,

National Geographic,

and Look.

buying a birdcage for the newspaper

i'm selective

with what

i read or watch on the news

anymore.

another senseless

school shooting,

nope,

click, i turn

the page.

political grumblings,

click,

turn the page.

another senate hearing,

another

march,

another charade.

click

and turn the page.

more brutal news about

the wars,

click and turn

the page.

sports, click and turn

the page.

time to cancel the paper

or buy a parakeet

and a large

cagebu

i like what you've done with that tree this year

there are those

who love

Christmas.

those rosy cheeked

brownie

baking, eggnog

sipping

glorious souls

with tinsel

in their hair,

and wearing

red sweaters.

they have the lights up.

the tree,

the candles,

the wreathes.

they are making cookies

and singing

carols.

they've already finished

their shopping,

but go out

anyway,

for just one more thing.

i appreciate

these people

they do all the work.

and allow me to relax

on the couch,

or luxuriously

sleep in.

Joe's hardware in town

it was a fine

hardware store in the heart

of town.

old men

in red vests

would show you where

to find

that exact screw

or nail,

a hammer or Phillip's head,

to secure something down.

many of them went to school

with your

mother

they'd tell you with a wink,

she was a looker,

just like you.

the right

paint?

please follow me.

the bag of salt for the driveway

is over here,

sir,

or madam.

do you need a new

broom,

or brush,

perhaps an umbrella

for when the rain

comes down,

a shovel

for the snowy

mush?

bird seed? step this way.

don't mind

the clutter.

aisle six needs a clean-up,

help

is on the way.

a pet free zone?

will there

be dogs in heaven,

cats,

maybe our favorite

horse

or chimpanzee?

turtles

and snakes.

will the T-rex

make it

behind the pearly gates?

or will it be

just us

in our robes and gowns,

our golden

crowns,

with not a parakeet,

or chipmunk,

not a squirrel or pigeon,

or owl

to be found?

please be aliens up there

it's not exactly

the day

the earth stood still,

the movie

from 1951,

but it would be fun

if the drones

that are flying above

us like swarms of bees

were of alien

origin, sent

from a galaxy far away,

and not related to

some goof ball

nerds

sending them

up from their

garages

and yards.

ordered on Amazon.

what a disappointment

this whole

scenario

will be.

i'll pray for you

it's a mystery.

your liking me.

i can't quite figure it out.

why

on earth would you

choose

the likes of me.

especially knowing my

history.

you see in

me what no one else has

seen.

and disregard

the rest.

i'll pray for you.

the rose bushes have thorns

careful

where you step in this

yard.

the rose bushes have

thorns.

the dog

has been here

and there.

the cat

too.

squirrels and birds,

snakes

and turtles.

that plant

over there might be

poison ivy,

or oak.

i'm not sure, but

be careful

just the same.

the puddles

are deep

and

the gate is splintered

too, so push

lightly when

you leave.

thank you for the visit,

it's been so nice

to see you too.

hard candy to find

i don't know

exactly where my mother

hid the hard

Christmas candy

that she

set out in bowls

after Thanksgiving was

over.

the ribbons

and bows,

cherry red

and white striped,

the mint green squares,

the brown

peanut colored

ones.

an assortment of holiday

decor

formed from hard

glazed sugar

and fructose.

i didn't know where she

hid them all year,

but boy,

did we search

and explore.

Irwin's sudden departure

when

Mimi's husband died,

heartache

at a red

light and she couldn't rouse

him

from his sudden death,

hunched

over the wheel

as the horn

blared.

she shook her head

and said.

why now?

what a mess.

you couldn't wait ten more

minutes

until we were in

the driveway.

could you?

i'm catching a cab,

let

911 do the rest.

a goal for the day

my goal

for the day is to leave

the house.

to put pants

on,

a shirt,

maybe shave

and brush my teeth.

i might

take my phone,

i might leave

it behind.

what's the difference.

no one

calls anymore.

maybe i'll take a loaf

of stale

bread

and walk up to the lake.

i'll feed the ducks.

that should take

care of an

hour or two, leaving

the rest of the day free.