i am moved

I am the third in 2
the
theater, well, not
really a theater,
but
what passes
for a screening room
at one of those
multi- movie places,
nowadays,
and I carefully
pick
my seat –
last row,
end -- and I settle
down
to the
half bag of
kettle corn I smuggled
in,
quite
smugglerly, ty,
and wait, patiently,
for
the inevitable,
and it happens quicker
even than
a cynic of note
might expect,
this time. with 300-some
other seats from which
to choose
she decides to
sit
right in front
of
me, no lie, not so
much
as
an inch displaced,
and I sigh somewhat audibly, but
force away the urge
to commit mayhem,
if not simple or
aggravated
assault, whatever that is, since
any type
of
assault
would seem
2b
aggravating – yes? – and
I was only left
wondering this:
are you shitting me?
which isn’t at all
thoughtful or philosophical
or
leastways anything worth
repeating.
but
it did
seem right at the
time.

in or out

she is caught,
now,
between two
pulls,
and this is
something
new
to her, because,
it is supposed,
she has
pulled,
before,
but never been pulled
like this.
this is not easy, for if
anyone knows
who’s
entered
a
door
or
left
one,
sometimes it gets
confusing –
push or
pull -- and sometimes
even when
someone has
been
good
enough
to give us proper and specific
directions
we still
do
just
the
opposite. she knows this,
too,
of course,
knows which way
to push
and/or
to pull, but is bewitched,
nonetheless, for if
you – or me,
or her, in this
instance -- spend
any part of a life
simply
pushing, you or me or,
in this case, she
can become
seduced by the other
(or resistant or insistent
enough) so
that the pulls
remain, though
remain they do
unrequited.
it is a satisfying predicament,
then,
but ill-fated,
too,
we all
discover, sooner
or
later, one way
or
another.
alas.

free coffee Wednesday

They sit at a table at the Panera in Darien. She leans forward and talks; he sits back in a “Callaway golf” sweatshirt and listens. She chews, purses her lips, waves her fork and says, “That’s what she did last time. I won’t let her do that, again,” then chews, purses and waves, some more. He still sits, wondering what? (“Good Jesus, is she ever going to stop?” “Mother Mary, I’ve heard all this, before.” Or: “Sacred Heart of Ortuga, I think my head is going to explode.” “Blah, blah, blah, blah.”) Or maybe he does care that she did that before and won’t get away with it, again. Next table over, a younger man in a black overcoat plays with his Blackberry, ear pods in, while his iPhone sits on the table. He obviously does not care what was done before and what might be done again, though this time over someone’s dead body. There are numerous questions, here, of course: who is she; why is he still listening to her, and at what exact time Thursday afternoon will the Blackberry and iPhone microwaves thoroughly fry Spunky's brain? But most importantly there is this: what do these three people have in common – and why? BTW: It’s “free coffee’ day at Panera. Drink hearty. (P.S. Just so you know, she’s now shaking her head; he’s missing two teeth on the back right, lower; Mr. I. M. A. Junior Executive booked.)

ALMOST SUNDAY EVENING

standing room only
at starbucks
on a Sunday afternoon –
friends, chess partners, lovers
(I don’t think so),
conversationalists –
“Having sex or getting it, there’s
a
big
difference” –
and a “tall black,”
which is a beverage, not someone
lanky of
African descent.
muzak is available for
purchase
at
the
register,
with a
grande black, which is
another beverage,
not someone, well,
you get the
idea.
mcdonald’s sits across
the
way, embedded into
an office
building, sort of symbolically
so
(don’t
you
think?)
in the corner, under the
starbucks goddess sign,
sits a semi-attractive blonde,
nodding
to
a guy
who, quite frankly,
looks like
a
douchebag, and she talks,
does
all
the
talking, as a matter of fact, as though
there’s something really important
to
get out
and
over
before “desperate
housewives” airs.
land of the brie
and
the
home of the knave. (jk!)
BTW: starbucks
is hiring.

Oh, Madge

I put my tree on the
porch.
no lights.
no tinsel.
just there, standing, still
in the
stand.
I’m not sure why
except
perhaps it is some attempt
at
homage, which is
a French word
that everyone mispronounces.
it is
not
the cost,
which was 49.95,
because it had a
yellow
sticker.
it is not an attempt
to
elongate the holidays
which, by the way,
were far shorter
this
year, for
me, at
least, and for good
reasons
which can be found
in other places and thoughts
and moments,
other
than here.
it is, instead,
I think,
just
because,
and: why not,
and:
“you don’t know
me,”
and:
mind your own business.
or
not.
I thought about adorning
it with
lights, then thought this: no,
I won’t.
it already has played the
part
of the bear
cycling for the
circus.
enough of that.
now, it might regain
it’s
pastoral
dignity, if for a few moments.
the hole it left in
the forest remains.
but, here,
a bit of
homage. or at least a thought
of it and for it.

Harry & Tommy & Teddy

Harry and
Tommy
and Teddy probably will
not remember
the Saturday
afternoon, so I will remember it
for
them, at the
Dancing Crane
Cafe
at the Central
Park Zoo,
when they sat,
waiting for their hot pretzels,
together,
Harry in the lime-est
green snowsuit and hat
imaginable
and
barely able to move
his
arms,
and their mom, or
their aunt, it
was, possibly,
finally bringing the snack
and telling them
that her
favorite things was
(were?)
the
penguins,
and Tommy
and
Teddy nodding,
while Harry just
sat,
pretty much immobile.
outside, it was
17
degrees &
sunny,
and the world was
speeding
by,
on its various
crash
courses,
but,
inside, time had
slowed
to a giggle
and a grin and
a swallow and Harry
finally
was
freed
from
his
parka,
and burped out
a
smile, and the man
watching
tried to recall similar
scenes and moments
with his own
Harry and Tommy and
Teddy
and wondered if anyone
ever
thought to
remember
them
for
him.

GOODBYE, AMERICA (he said)

I watched his face,
his smile,
heard what he had to say
and came
to
this:
how small he
looked and it struck
me as
incongruous how a
man supposed to be so
large, expected to be
so large,
looked so
tiny
and a swell of anger
began
(and
rattles in me still)
over
how some
one
could do so little with
so
much.
the emptiness.
the damage.
the dead and the lives
so much less,
now.
the carnage.
and so comes a new
day,
a new man
a new idea, and while throngs
wait with breath bated
and with hopes
rekindled
I am left with this:
more us,
perhaps,
and less him.
and, isn’t that the idea of
THE
GREAT
EXPERIMENT,
after all.
we got lazy with our
lazyboys
and American
idolators
and pulling ourselves
up with the bootstraps
of others.
now
is
the
time
to retake not control,
for that
seems
far too rife with conceit,
but
a partnership, the partnership
in
the
dream,
whatever that now means
to you and you and me
and
them,
and to
let
the
answer – the answers –
be in the doing
not
in
what
gets
done. That was America.
Ours.
Not his.
Never his.
But finally, ours,
maybe,
again.
the opportunity.
another
chance.

24 degrees

I want to
light
a
fire.
I want to
smell
the wood
burning.
I want to
pull a chair close to
the stove.
I want to
feel
the warmth, that different
kind of warmth. A closer
warmth.
A warmer
warmth.
A hotter
warmth that gets closer to your soul, gets inside,
really inside.
Instead,
I turn the thermostat
up to 65.
The temperature
goes up,
but the warmth
doesn’t
seep,
doesn’t
snuggle up,
doesn’t
reach the cockles
(whatever those
are).
In fact,
the warmth
is
cold, if that’s possible,
and
I think
it is.
So, I shiver, even
though
I’m not
cold.
I’m just not warm.

dreamed

I take stock, now,
to find
if any
remain
entire and
whole.
I want to
hold them
in my hands and try to breathe
them
gently back
to life.
I want to
do better
to them,
this second
time. I want to honor
them
and protect
them,
so I can pass
them on
to my children, so they have the
chance
to examine them
with their
own eyes,
with their
own hearts.
But, if not
damaged,
hurt,
then they
are
just
gone.
Like a wind
that blew
through too fast to be caught,
captured,
contained,
if wind
even can
be slowed
for perusal.
So, they will need
to find
their own. And all I can do
is hope
that
they
have better
luck with theirs.
I hope.
It is what’s
left.
It is what's
always
left.
Mostly.

so far away from home

I don’t even
know
which way
leads
where,
anymore.
I can’t imagine being
in that place,
again.
It’s been such a long time. Home.
It was there,
once.
I was there,
once.
I remember,
sometimes,
what it felt
like, how it sounded, how it smelled. The voices.
The smiles.
The center.
Now, I turn
this way
and that
and end
up
in the same
place:
Not There.
I think of it
sometimes,
now, as if
it were
a dream.
I tell
myself I know better. I tell myself
that.
But I believe
it not
very much.
Anymore.

hot chocolate

He sits with her at a small round table in the back room of the coffee shop. He’s balding, overweight, wearing a plaid, flannel shirt and navy cargo pants. She’s graying, overweight, dressed in a red, Christmas sweater and jeans. They talk quietly, genially, smiling, looking one another in the eyes. In the room across the way, a man in a moustache and ponytail sings Bob Dylan. He’s horribly off key, but they don’t seem to mind. They’re talking about landscaping, but it’s not what they talk about, but how. She uses her hands to gesture. His arms are folded. He listens. He’s always been a good listener. She’s always been the talker. They’ve worked this out. She changes the subject and says, “Millie got one hundred dollars for a bag of books on eBay.” His chin is in his hand, now. He uses the word “wicked,” twice. He laughs. She sips from her cup of hot chocolate. They will leave in 10 minutes to head to Millie’s for a small party with friends. They will stay for an hour, then head home, to bed. She will wake up alone tomorrow morning, head downstairs and find him on the kitchen floor, eyes open, mouth open, tongue out, lolled to the right. A heart attack. They know none of that, now, of course. He leans back in his chair, asks, “How’s the hot chocolate?” She shrugs, reaches for his hand, takes it in hers, kisses it.

script-sure

She pulled a folded paper from her jeans, opened it, and said, “Look, he gave me these quotes from Scripture on love. They’re all about love. From the Internet. Do you want to hear them?” He was the handyman. His name was Ed. She would spend the next six months telling him – not the handyman, not Ed, but him -- how he’d changed her life. Now, she just stood, with the papers in her hand, waiting. Someone called from the dining room. She quickly refolded the papers, slipped them back into her jeans pocket. “They’re about love,” she repeated, looking down, now, away. He’d heard her the first time. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what could be said. The voice, again. From the other room. She shrugged, turned away. He watched her go. She wasn’t leaving, now. She’d already done that. He cracked an egg and dropped it into the skillet. It bubbled up in the butter. He broke the yoke.

resig Nation

I am floating
she said
with a sad
smile.
Her children
were gone
and she was
on her own
for the first
time in such a long, long
time.
I’m no longer
grounded,
she said,
with a lonely
smile. Her children
were gone
and she was
by herself
for the first
time in such
a long,
long, long
time.
I need to find
my purpose,
again, she said
with a look
that said she
wasn’t so sure
she’d come up
with one. Then,
she thought
for a moment,
then for
a moment, again,
and asked: What if
this is it?
What if
there’s nothing anymore like that?
And a voice
inside her head
said:
There isn’t.
But
that’s all right.
It will
be all right.
She didn’t believe
the voice, but
she had
no choice.

juxta position

I asked them
to think
about
others,
to write about
how others
would see
what they have, and
some did,
but others didn’t,
and it was sad,
in a quiet, almost
solemn
way.
Too young
to know differently,
and, perhaps,
that’s the shame,
and the sadness.
“He” looked in the window
and saw what he saw
but they didn’t let
him feel.
She “peered” into the window and I gave a good mark for the verb,
but what
about
what she
thought,
I asked, and she
could not
answer.
They are both
innocent
and
not,
these writers.
They need to know,
they need to see. It’s the
only
hope: Them.
Their generation. It has come to
that
point: empathy,
compassion,
being able to feel
someone’s life
as theirs.
Not completely, for
that is impossible.
But in increments,
in silence, in time.
Of that, we
grow
short.

new year's eve

He needed this. He needed to visit the old haunts to figure out what haunted him. So, he came, last night, and flopped into a warm bed after a long, quiet, four-hour drive. It was snowing, now, but instead of bringing that feeling of a winter’s warmth, it just made everything feel so much colder. He pulled his cap down lower over his eyes; he needed to hide his eyes. They never lied for him and he didn’t want to chance it -- chance it that he would meet someone he knew and they would see inside to the hurt, damaged places. The hat would do it. It had cost him $12, on sale from $20. It was a small price to pay for protection. He headed toward his car, across the walk, across the street. No one was watching, he could see that, but he felt everyone looking. A gust of wind. A swirl of snow. Two kids came out of the dining hall, faces painted, part of the New Year’s Eve activities. He climbed into his car, watched them pass by, hand in hand, then backed out carefully. It was only 4 p.m.; he had eight more hours to while away until the new year. He started to drive, hoping to get lost. One of the kids, one of the face-painted kids, stood at the side of the road and waved to him, mistaking him for someone else. He thought for a moment, then waved back. It was the right thing to do. He was big on doing the right thing.

oh, christmas tree

It was her laugh. It was loud and brassy and genuine. I mean, she really laughed. We were visiting a nearby farm to cut down a Christmas tree. She’d taken me there. The old lady at the door said, “Take your pick.” I was about to, when she – not the old lady, but her – asked where I’d put my saw. I told her I didn’t bring one. I didn’t have time to tell her that on all the other tree-cutting excursions I’d been, saws were provided. She laughed. I mean, she really laughed. It was a how-can-you-cut-down-a-tree-without-a-saw laugh. She was wearing a hat. She looked good in hats. And she laughed – at me – so hard that she had to grab my arm – or did just anyway. And it was ok; it was better than ok. It was somehow so unabashedly wonderful that I remember it, today, years later. When we broke up, or whatever that was called, I gave her back all the gifts she’d given me. I thought about those the other day. I thought I might want them, again. Then I thought this: What I really want is to hear that laugh, again. That way. Like then. But I think, perhaps, that that is gone, too.

americans idle

We sit and wait
And watch
In our spare time.
We make a cogent
Comment or two when
A friend or companion
Wonders.
We may grumble
And gripe and
Maybe even complain.
But we still
Do
Nothing.
We text msg.
To choose the next
Mediocre talent,
But can’t name
Our congressmen
On a bet.
Not that it would
Do any good.
Neil Young sings
About it
But he’s
Eminently ignorable.
After all,
He’s Canadian.
And Bruce?
This time, he’s
Making us all feel
Good.
In the end,
Of course,
It comes down to
Simple
Math.
Are you willing
to let
him Die
For this cause.
It’s your
Choice.
Yes, ultimately
It is. And if so yes,
him, do you want
To see what he looks like
First?
Who he (or she) is?
The family?
The kids?
And if it’s OK
For it to be him,
Then
It becomes
A matter of
Addition.
How many hims
(Or hers)
Finally Equals
Victory?
Or, maybe just
Enough?
Simple Math.
Not the new math.
The old math.
The kind this world
Has always done,
Because no one stops
it.

me and Mary

we talked about
aloneness
and loneliness
and being alone and that if we happened to die
in a sleep,
who would know
but us,
the
deceased.
and we
talked of
reinvention
and recarnation
and
just being who we
are supposed to be,
if we ever
figure
out
that.
and we spoke about
despair and confusion
and
trying to decide between
the present
and what might
be in the future. and, of course,
we talked about
The Journey
and where to go
and why
and with whom
and when
and ended up
in just about
the same
place
we started.
or maybe not. for if each
thought
is
a
step,
then perhaps
there was some
advance.
then,
we hugged
and
said goodbye. each off, again,
on the quest
to slay
or to save,
and who would know
which?
who could
know
which.

me, too

He was waiting
at the crosswalk,
talking
to a friend,
in mid-town
Manhattan,
and said: “I want to play
guitar and
sing.”
I wanted to say,
“Don’t we all?”
but the light changed and he disappeared
back into
his own
world of
ongoing
oblivion.
Still, it struck
a chord
with me, as you
might see.
A major one
not
a minor. I began to wonder
what other
things would fit
under “Don’t
we all”
as I waited
at
another light
at another
crosswalk:
Peace.
Love.
Respect.
Value.
Self-worth.
Meaning.
Understanding.
Compassion.
Empathy.
Honor.
Dignity.
Courage.
Patience.
Wisdom.
Understanding.
A
good
dog.
(Add yours, here)
Rapture.
Salvation.
Emancipation. Education.
Good
sex.
Don’t we all.

contentedness

She wished me
to be
content, which
is the word,
to use,
though
I’d never used
it.
Or, rather,
she wished
for
me
contentedness, which is different, a little,
though not appreciably
so.
And I wondered
why
I never
thought of it
that way.
To be
content.
Not so much happy,
for that
might be much more
elusive –
happiness –
but just
to be
ok
with life.
But that’s not
exactly it, either. It’s to be
OK
with an OK
life.
To be: content.
It sounds better,
now, with each
sounding; not so
settled, or
settling,
or un-settling,
as it might
be
interpreted.
A wish for one’s contentment. A nice
thought.
I think.
I like it.
I’m content with it.

4th and long!

I went to
a high school
football game
and
nostalgia
broke out.
Went deep. Took me to the house.
First time
in at least
10 years
and
everything was
the same,
everything
felt
the same. Boys
testing
their manhood. Girls
watching
wide-eyed,
though not knowing
what they were
seeing.
Parents
aware of
something –
mostly
themselves,
for it was
themselves
most were
watching.
the score
didn’t matter,
even though it was kept
by some
young student
paid to
put up
the numbers.
He (or was it
a she?)
had no idea
what the numbers
meant.
Or if she (or
was it a he?)
had an idea,
well, it wasn’t even close. the score meant
nothing
and
everything.
It always
does.

a statement

The pictures
sit
propped
against the wall.
Like so
for two months,
now.
Unhung.
Paintings.
Posters.
Photos.
Piled one
against another
and another.
Like so
for two months,
now.
He’s thought
a few times
about
placing them.
But he hasn’t moved
one.
So, they remain.
Like so,
for two months,
now.
They had places
at his other
places.
They’re all
old friends.
A child.
Two. Three.
Venice.
A door, there.
A hockey player.
Two.
Three.
Hanging them,
he has decided,
is
a statement
he’s not ready
to make.
Not yet,
if ever,
here.
He feels as though
he should
apologize
to them.
But he doesn’t.
So, they remain.
Like so,
for two months,
now.

a clearing

It’s not like
a passing
storm.
Or a cleft
in the forest.
It’s an opening
in the mind,
if that makes sense.
Not that it must,
you know.
To clear
is to evaporate
the dissonance.
Or to shove it
to
the
back row,
where
it is less
noisy.
For the time
being,
at least.
A calm
arrives.
A peace
prevails.
What is seen,
or,
better yet,
looked for,
is finally
appear-ant,
if not
apparent.
And is clung
to
and
honored.
Because
what is clear
for a moment
may not be so
in the next.
I hold my
breath.
It is all I have
to hold.
For now.

A fool's word

It is a word that
Has no
relevance. Still,
You will hear it:
“He survived
UNSCATHED.”
But it
Is a lie
Perpetrated
But those who know
No better.
Or, worse, those
Who want us to think
That the anger
And hell of war
Is somehow
Avoidable,
Can be sidestepped,
Maybe even pushed
Into a vacuum
And sealed into
A soul.
Dodge the RPG
That cuts the corporal
In half.
Unscathed?
Feel the Humvee
Explode,
The ground
Shudder and give,
See the night grow
Red from the flames
And deafening
From the screams.
Unscathed?
Your choice:
Shoot or
Don’t shoot.
Even the right
decision.
Unscathed?
That which scars
The brain is not
Always visible to
Those other than
Ourselves.
You know fear.
Terror.
Hell’s fire.
And you have
No choice.
Five months ago
You were the
Gridiron star
At Whiskey Notch
High.
Or the office manager
At State Farm.
Now, you’re not.
And now you’re about
To be mortally wounded,
Whether you’re hit
Or not.
Not all of you
Will come out
Alive.
And some of you won't die.
Unscathed?
It’s a fool’s word

downtown

He came home and walked the downtown during the dark, deserted hours. No danger. No fear. But a loneliness. He recalled how it was, years earlier, with his mother and family. The corner store smelled of roasted cashews. The display windows were Christmas attractions. Figures moved mechanically. Carols played. Snow drifted down, inside and out. Bells rang. Light twinkled. Kids chattered and skated awkwardly on the rink on the square. Not this night. None of it. Times change; times changed. The wind blew hard, chasing away the memories. Homeless huddled over hot-air vents across the street from the cathedral. A man on the corner asked for change and said, “God bless.” He had only one leg.

party of 5

He sits
at a table and
eats a turkey sandwich
that could be a turkey
sandwich
anywhere,
and wonders if
he could be him,
anywhere, or if
there’s a special
place,
somewhere,
for that,
and he
swigs
a
drink
from the lemonade
bottle
and tries to wash it
all
down,
and
does.
And outside,
as the snow
falls,
people head up and down
the sidewalks,
and he wonders if
they
have
any
idea
where they are
going,
or not.
Suddenly,
a voice
interrupts
and says,
“Can you move to another
table so we
can
seat
this
Party
of Five?”
and he sees
that the Party of
Five knows
where they need to be
and it’s where
he
is
and he wants to
forewarn
them,
but
he
doesn’t.
He just moves.

counseling

The office was in one of those oddly angled rooms carved out of an old house. It felt sad, he thought. He had no clue anymore to what she was thinking. She sat in the chair by the window, he to her right. The counselor sat across from them both. He wore a green flannel shirt and green cargo slacks. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a soft, almost russet voice. He looked tired. He was. Her jaw was set. This was the third meeting. The previous two had been uneventful. This would be the one where they would decide things. In the first two she’d talked about how she didn’t love him, anymore, about how maybe she never did love him, even during the first few years of their 28 years together. He – her husband -- mostly listened. Truth was, he didn’t know much of what to say. She tapped her shoe. She was ready to go. He could tell. “We’ve come to the point,” the counselor said, “where we need to decide whether to continue in an attempt to reconcile or to continue and to prepare for divorce.” The room was silent, but only for a moment, and not a long one, at that. “I’m done,” she said. It was, perhaps, one of the most matter of fact things she’d ever said. Her certainty was painful, at least to him, the husband. The counselor looked at him and he shrugged, almost apologetically. She said, “Is that all, then?” She never looked at him, but just stood, turned, and left the room. Four days later, she would call him when her car wouldn’t start at the Hannaford. He told her she was on her own, now. She called him an asshole.

a first date

My son is
in jail, she
said,
without
any prompting,
and even though
she offered it
unabashedly,
the pain
was lit
in
her
eyes.
“I suppose
you want to head
for the door,”
she said.
I didn’t,
and
I’m not sure why
I didn’t.
I think it was
that
which
connected us:
we both
were
parents.
I know
the fine
line that separates
things,
events,
fate,
lives.
She waited.
I thought.
She waited.
I watched her.
She waited.
I asked her how
often she gets
to visit him.
I knew she did.
I know I would.
A baby cried before
she
could answer.
A Sunday afternoon
at Starbucks.
Greenwich,
Connecticut.
It was windy outside.

the bell ringer

He stands and rings the bell, outside the store where America shops. It’s cold, almost brutally windy, and he knows, now, that he should have dressed warmer, but it’s too late, so he simply hugs his chest with his free arm, best he can. He didn’t have much else much warmer, anyway. Maybe the old Jets sweatshirt, but that was green and he was supposed to dress in red or dark blue and he liked to follow the rules. It would be all right. He’d been colder, after all. The night the electricity’d been shut off, for one. Two years ago. Christmas night. Longest night he could remember, other than the time overseas, in 2002, with the army, in the mountains of Afghanistan, when Sammy Doune died. That other night, too, maybe last year, right? When they ran out of heating oil. That was maybe colder than both. But he decided not to think about it, about any of those, or about how cold it was, now, how chilled he could become. Maybe that would help. Instead, he just tapped his feet and rang the bell. Don’t think, just ring the bell, he told himself. People passed. Not much business. A woman who looked a little like his grandmother offered him a cup of hot chocolate. He took it, thanked her, mostly with his eyes, and kept on ringing the bell. It was, after all, his job. He had, after all, volunteered to do it. So, he did. His name was Larue, Joaquin Larue.

super cut

in the chair
next,
at
9,
she says:
no more
$70
haircuts.
at some
fancy salon.
the
supercutter
cutting
asks:
why not,
which seems a bit
odd, though perhaps
apropos.
laid off
she says
as her hair
is
thinned,
like her life
has been.
and so it seems
to start, at the
roots.
no more
appointments.
no more
shampoos.
no more manicures,
if ever.
pedicures always
seemed too
bourgeois,
she doesn’t say
but looks the part.
it’s all over
in less than
15
minutes.
in.
on.
sit.
done.
14.94,
plus tip.
she leaves
as she came:
grim,
but set.
a bit more coiffed,
but not that much.
super
cut.
it will do.
it
must.

the first blow of winter

it sounds
different, here,
the wind.
first:
it doesn’t whip through
the trees and slice across
the fields,
with an ominous
tone,
but loudly
carves out a path
around houses and
condos and
strip malls,
wailing as if it’s
somehow
wounded.
back home, where
home used to be,
the wind
was regal,
ruling and
winter felt different.
or sounded so.
the snow falls
different, too,
it seems.
back home,
where home used
to be,
it dropped.
here, it is battered
about, until it
finally seems to give
up its flailing and
settle.
it might be just me.
or not,
but back home,
where, home used to
be, I would light
a fire and winter
would smell like
winter.
here,
winter doesn’t smell
at all.
back home,
where home used to
be winter
felt warmer, too,
even when it wasn't.

homegoing

It felt
foreign, odd, old,
passed, like
a ghost,
and he asked a friend
about her
thoughts, and she
said,
“Me, too,”
even though
she came
back, which
he started to
understand
he never would.
And he began to
think
differently
and started to see
things
clearer, at least
for
the
moment, which
was
at least
a
start.
What was once
would
not be, again,
he realized.
What is twice
could not be,
at all,
he knew.
And slowly
but
surely
as he looked
and
watched
and thought,
more
and more,
he felt his grip
ease,
his hold
loosen
his grasp
release,
and his heart
ache
and,
finally,
he
let
go.

starbuckers

They sit in Starbucks, nursing grandes. They are female, overweight and overbearing, though the latter is a presumption, not a fact. Other couples, groups, talk quietly. Not them. They are best described as adamant. They are not attractive, but neither pretend to be, though they probably would take offense at being judged so, or not so, as the case might be. The one in the multi-colored scarf believes in psychics and has just announced that she has a “study Bible,” whatever that is. The one in the black jeans and bright white sneakers agrees, without even hearing what scarf-lady said, for it’s not important to her that she hears, it’s just important that someone listens, or at least pretends to. Deep down she knows this and it doesn’t bother her. Scarf-lady is pretending to focus and just said these phrases: “ducks in a row” and “the end is coming.” Sneaker woman lowers her voice, leans forward, becomes more involved, because scarf lady is telling a story, now, about a man with an operable brain tumor, whose tumor disappeared. “I get chills when I tell this story,’ she says. They stand now and sneaker woman brings up Jenny’s name and scarf lady says, “You don’t need a man in your life. You and I both know that.” “Amen,” says sneaker woman.

the party

She always dressed for the parties. This time, she came in a shawl, and she danced. Lord, did she dance. He spent most of that party just watching her. It was, after all, after she’d told him she didn’t need him, couldn’t want him; it was over. He didn’t believe her. It was easier that way, he says. It was late, too late, really, when he finally asked her to dance. She said yes. So, they danced. Lord, did they dance. He pulled her close, too close, really, and felt her heat. She pulled him close, much too close, of course, and kissed his neck. He still feels that closeness; he still knows that kiss. She says it was nothing. He doesn’t believe her, of course. He won’t. It’s easier, that way, he says. He never was one for the hard stuff. Unless it came to her.

the greeter

She owned her own business, once. Nothing special. She was a seamstress. She had thin, talented, almost elegant fingers. Did really OK for herself. Helped supplement her and Hank’s income. Helped put the kids, Eddie and Ellie, through college. State schools. But better than she’d had. She hadn’t hardly finished high school. Things started going downhill about 10 years ago. People stopped fixing things, they just bought new ones. She used to joke to customers, “People just don’t give a darn, anymore.” She always winked when she said “darn,” just to make sure they got it. She lost all reason to laugh when she couldn’t afford the rent, anymore, even though the place was smaller than a pair of closets. She tried to work it at home, and did for a while. Then Hank got sick and it was tough to have people in there with him like he was. She took this job about a year after he passed. She shivered, now. Should have worn something warmer underneath. “I need you closer to the entrance, Mary,” Jordan said. “Don’t hide in that corner.” Jordan was the manager. He was 28. He wasn’t very nice, but she figured he had a tough job. She didn’t expect he’d ever used a seamstress, maybe didn’t even know what one was. She inched closer to the door, trying to find a spot out of the draft. Two young women entered and she said, “Welcome to WalMart.” They didn’t answer. They didn’t even look at her. She didn’t mind, anymore, being invisible. Maybe never did, really. Right now, she just wanted to be a bit warmer. Just a bit.