On Hedgerow Drive

I wonder if the birds came today.
Filled their bath last night after work
and the feeder by the kitchen window
early this morning.
I tend not to open the garage doors
because it startles them.
Though they leave gifts of color
on my car when it’s left in the driveway.
The spring will come soon
and I’ll wake them on weekdays—
stretching, chest forward, arms back,
like the birds in the front garden.
While I have the luxury to shower or bathe,
they rely on me for fresh water.
They test the water with their toes
as clichéd cartoon humans do.
I’m sure the birds were here today,
although I didn’t find them there
by the blue and purple slate walkway
or anywhere around this place
that is not theirs nor quite my own.
In thirty years time,
the bank tells me this will all be mine.
But I’d rather have no responsibility
and come and go on a summer breeze
with the knowledge
that I can always stop down
and test the water.

Piece by Piece

Here we are in the failing nation
where we are too proud to pay rent
and not upper-middle enough to pay our way.
So we mortgage our lives
piece by insignificant piece:
a car, a purse, clothing, and jewelry,
a two hundred dollar wallet
with not enough cash carried inside
to purchase movie tickets, a tank of gas,
a gallon of milk, a loaf of bread.
Hope comes in rumors of a tax refund
to purchase instead of paying down
maxed out credit cards or
the principal of your mortgage.
Do what they tell you—
it’s good for the economy.
Short sell your house or they’ll foreclose.
You can always file for bankruptcy
and have a shot at it all over again
in ten years time your coveted credit
will bounce back like the market.
At least that’s what they tell us.

Ullage

I can only hope for smooth sailing
when I leave you behind in New York
with the new puppy
and the hustle and bustle
of superficial competition.
Although it never is easy to leave,
once I hit Grand Central Parkway
there’s no turning back—
at least not this Sunday night.
It becomes hard to keep the car steady
when the wind blows side to side
one hand on the wheel
the other changing songs on the iPod,
adjusting the volume and heat controls
while also readily available
to answer the phone in my lap—
I keep it on vibrate
so I can feel you calling me.
Another week ends, another week a drone,
in trance of anticipation for the next time
we can play family again.
Our hectic parade,
a procession of short visits,
New York this weekend;
Providence the next,
as we continue our short visits
to appease our hearts and our minds.
This mutual philanthropy—
an effort to compensate for lost time
and those Mondays to Fridays
where we long for days
closer together
and more mundane.

The House on Saltaire

Tonight, like so many nights,
Cooush, I hear the sound,
the splash of the sea.
Salty transparent like the sweat
that drips from my brow to lips.
“Kiss me, I’m not crying,” I call out.
No answers except the wind
briskly blowing across the bay.
I imagine you would be as tearful as me,
when the smell of untraveled places
enters your nostrils
by means of the sunset wind.
It’s not painful or harsh like low tide,
I think, wiping my wind-induced tears,
looking out towards Block Island and the Sound.
“You’re not far from there, a few miles or so
from point to point,”
but the Whaler will not take me that far—
not against the waves of a southeastern wind.
Tonight, like so many nights,
I’m not there,
I cannot be.

Clubhouse

Please let me in the clubhouse.
I have candy, dirty jokes and
magazines of filth.
I may not help your grade point average
but I promise to cause it no detriment.
I can help with geometry and algebra,
or maybe help you with your piggy bank.

I wear cool clothes and don’t do what I’m told
all the time.
But I won’t wear your letters shamefully
in public or at the local mall.
I’m different, I know,
but I don’t care about the other clubs.
They’ve always been too willing to let me be a part.

I can lend you secrets of the world you wonder
yet only write about.
Why watch movies in avid research?
I can tell you who she is, or who they are,
I can tell you what it feels like
and the year of the car her father drives.
I turn to new experiences
instead of turning the page
of another’s recollection.

Please let me in the clubhouse
and we can play your games.
I’d like to know what’s so special
that I cannot come in.
I doubt it’s something I haven’t
pondered in anxiety, persona, or voice,
nor dreamed a wet dream’s nightmare
about or viewed in some porno scene.
All I can offer is perhaps what you don’t want.
Or maybe it is that you’ve wanted it for so long
you’ve all given up.
But maybe I hit my social prime in high school.

I just bought another blazer
I’m not sure if it’s your style or mine.
I hope it’s not too cool, I hope it’s not too dull.
I cannot change the way I look, or the way I talk,
or my desire to become a member
of the only club that I wanted to be part of
that wouldn’t let me in.

Syrup (Draft)

It's been a long time
since I built a fort,
climbed a tree,
jumped fearlessly on a sled
down a rocky, half snow-covered hill.
I can't remember the last time
I rode a bike
down to the "One Stop"
to buy penny candy
with quarters stolen from my father's dresser.
I don't miss the scraped knees
and the way the pebbled pavement made
indents in my skin--
those would bleed differently than a
fall from rollerblading--
a chunk of skinned something,
"Look at that. Is that skin?"

It's been a long time
since I stabbed jellyfish with piece of driftwood
found on the beach.
I bashfully wore a t-shirt
while riding waves at the beach,--
soaked, sticky, and wet with salty sea water--
I exit the wake, bellybutton showing through my shirt,
the unique thrill of the suction sound
as I modestly peeled the shirt away
from my husky, prepubescent belly.

After, we made mud pies,
slapping them with water
till they became flat like pancakes
with dead jellies as the syrup.

Recent events, well, kind of.

I'm in no way condoning a man hitting a woman, ever, but I would like to talk about it. People may surprised to learn that greats such as Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra were arrested and charged with similar offenses. Frankly, unless a woman is about to stab me with a knife or shoot a member of my family, I couldn't even imagine raising a hand to a woman. In fact, even in the knife and gun instances, I would feel terribly guilty. Anyhow, I really don't want Chris Brown to bounce back from the situation he has gotten himself into. Oftentimes, many celebrities get special treatment in the form of acquittal by virtue of the dollar, reduced sentences, bizarre and lame community service projects, white-collar jails, and 24 hour sentences--really?!

It's insane the way pop culture has adversely shaped society in the chance of rules, in some instances, that your average citizen must abide by. Since it is the entertainment industry, perhaps society gets a sweeter revenge of sorts because these fools repeatedly do asinine things. OJ for example--anyone dumb enough to hold up a collectibles dealer in a casino should not only be caught and thrown in jail but be forced to watch silly, children's programs like in Addams Family Values. Talk about stupid. In all the many hours OJ Simpson sits around, you're telling me he hasn't watched the various programs and movies which show people winning a visit to the infamous back rooms of Las Vegas casinos after being caught counting cameras, stealing chips, etc. Yes, OJ, there are a lot of cameras in multibillion dollar casinos.

But, I think, Chris Brown takes the cake. High profile, young, successful. On his way with Rihanna to becoming the next Jay-Z and Beyonce. How could he possibly think it would be okay? How could he possibly think he could get away with assaulting your celebrity girlfriend in a car rented out to you. Did I also mention that paparazzi follow them around like dogs chasing the mailman (insert another simile if you're more comfortable, I'm trying to make a point). Dozens of radio stations are boycotting his music, burning his CDs, throwing away t-shirts, etc. We will, and very well should, remember Chris Brown as a weak individual who beat on a woman. If Rihanna is stupid enough to take him back, which sadly and unfortunately happens often in abusive relationships, she will only have herself to blame as the whole world rolls their eyes yet again.

On another note, it's disgusting that a network (MTV) would air a show produced to reduce a sentence of a repeat offender of possessing and illegally owning a closet full of weapons. Without getting too political, Bush and the GOP launched a multi-billion 'war' against multiple countries to supposedly rid them of "weapons of mass destruction." Here, in the United States, however, it's okay to have an adult items store next to a children's daycare, liquor stores next to high school recreational playing fields, and gun stores next to elementary schools (Call me on this and I will list specific examples). Whatever the case may be, our society is basically saying that it's okay that a rapper, like T.I., can have multiple assault riffles and other illegal automatic weapons. If you make a reality show, as if we didn't have enough already, displaying your supposed remorse and willingness to help others, in an attempt to help people who will end up dead or in the correctional system anyhow.

Again, it is crazy the ways in which popular culture has altered our society. We certainly can't live without social freedoms, freedom of expression, and having the right to explore new media such as this blogging platform. Popular culture, of course, should be a representation of the world in which we live. However, what more are we willing to sacrifice in terms of morals and ethical values. It is a double-edged sword, I suppose. Maybe, in 30 years, our kids will have no idea that Chris Brown brutally assaulted Rihanna. After all, many people have forgotten about good old Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra.

Anthony Bourdain has got the life

(Note: Since I've completely neglected this blog, and would like to monetize this blog, I've consolidated. Hopefully, I will be writing about food and restaurants, in addition to the things I already write about).

Like him or not folks, you have to admit that traveling around the world to eat and drink in a wide range of restaurants and lounges is quite appealing. I highly doubt I'm the only one who thinks that way. Many people are of the persuasion, "eat to live, not live to eat." Well, I wouldn't say I exactly fall asleep hungry and wake up famished, but then again, most Americans don't. I do, however, think about food all the time, plan meals way ahead of time, get Chinese take-out more than I should, and scope out menus to restaurants and bars in states where I've yet to travel. I get excited about food but I am definitely the type of person who is more excited about eating food than making it. I am all about savory foods and not so much the sweets, although cheesecake (New York Style opposed to Italian) is amazing. But then again, there's cheese in it, therefore, savory again.

I've gotten ahead of myself. I wanted to make this first post to tell you that I will be writing, from time-to-time, about different restaurants, lounges, and bars I want to go to, have been to, and forget I've ever been. Hopefully, these experiences will be on the recommendation side instead of run and hide. I have several places in mind, one of which I went to this past Saturday night on Long Island, which I will be writing about in the near future.

Cheers!

Nothing too exciting...yet

So, this will be my blog where I will try to mind my Ps and Qs when talking about all the idiocy we find 1) On the radio--where they actually still play music between commercials for debt consolidation, sexual enhancement products, and marijuana studies for woman ages 13-25 who aren’t pregnant. 2) In the wonderful world of reality television—where, like Joel McHale, I cannot stand what I’m watching yet I watch it to criticize the programming, make fun of the often type-casted hot messes appearing on the shows, and yes, probably to feel better about myself, all while boosting the ratings of the very shows I watch to scorn and despise that they’re actually on television 3) the Internet and other lovely media that allow me to do what I’m doing at this very moment in time.

Certainly, I will rant and rave about other things. And while I’m debating a better title for this blog, as I’m quite sure something more interesting will come to mind, I’m thinking of many other things I have wanted to, can, and will talk about.

Cheers!

Sedation Dentistry

Take a Xanax,
a couple of milligrams—
There you are—
it will help you
relax.
Fall,
while your eyelids
flutter.
I’ll put you under.
Personally,
I like the nitrous effect:
laugh, then sleep,
while I poke and prod.
My hands find their way,
placing my implements aside.
Drift fingertips
up your skirt.
Need a little Astroglide—
Vaseline will smell too obvious.
After all,
this is for my pleasure
at your expense.

Sage Drive

A candle burns with its flicker and flame
in my mother-in-law’s suburban living room
a little too close to a Raggedy Andy doll
rested at the foot of an antique lamp
complimented in color by its shade.
The dim room shades a polaroid,
out of place and without frame,
of the Virgin Mary’s reflection
in some glass office building in Florida,
I am told.
A Boyd’s Bear is there as well
propped in a seated position—
a thought of but not sought after collectible
I am sure—
placed among knickknacks and nothings
inside this cramped three-bed, two-bath
with a finished basement on Sage Drive.
They park their cars against the grain here
with no threat of a parking ticket, tow,
or timed meter running out.
A phone rings, it’s Diane,
the neighborhood gossip queen,
second marriage, stay-at-home mother of three,
spreading rumors of a break in on Brierbrook Avenue,
two streets away.
“Lock your doors,” she says,
“for the rest of the week anyhow.”

Neighbors

There was always a better chance of
hearing an argument than seeing
a light shine from the house
across the street.

Oftentimes there were angry voices
yelling about
money,
the car payments,
the cesspool,
the mortgage,
the pitbull
chewing something up,
again.

It was always later in the day
that I would see her—
her car, rather—
and the garage door opening
and her silver car entering
the darkness that possessed
that house.

At various times of the day
I’d see his white van,
a mobile advertisement
for Bill’s Cleaning Company,
parked in the drive,
there in the morning
and there at night.

I hope they went somewhere bright
when they actually did leave;
because for all the money I heard about,
one of them should have seen some light.

What's Left

Took a drive around the neighborhood,
I think it was Thursday.
I found no more milk containers on stoops,
no newspapers in driveways,
but foundations of homes
and a broken alabaster lion—
fragments of Greenlawn Avenue
a couple of streets away.

Every time I drive around
a dozen more houses are gone.
A year’s time will pass
and the rest will be bought out,
bulldozed over,
and left to decay and collect graffiti
and idle brown-bag passersby—
a neighborhood full of ruffians
that drift around Winslow Park
where kids used to ride their bikes
and recreational leagues prized the fields
as location for softball and soccer.

I suppose the Airport will take
my street, my house,
Jessica’s, and Dustin’s,
and soon,
the whole neighborhood.

Some would say
it’s probably for the better—
despite the noise, the jet fuel pollutants,
and increased traffic.
But I’ve lived here longer than anywhere else—
an eighth of a mile
from that runway.

Without

I go out from time to time
knowing that I will not see you
leaned at the bar,
browsing songs on the jukebox,
or outside having a smoke
and simple conversations.
Thanks to mobile phones
I may hear from you—
God-willing there is good service—
as if satellites play a significant role
in the night’s direction.

I visit the men’s room to have a chat
and with no one around,
I attempt to rationalize with my reflection
in the mirror in front of the urinals.
I realize it all becomes useless—
my dry-cleaned button-downs,
my matching brown shoes and belt,
even that more-white-than-blue striped
J-Crew shirt you bought me.

You know the one:
“It’s supposed to be wrinkled.”
Yes, that one.
I like it a lot by the way.

But it’s wasted,
unnecessary,
like each spray of Burberry cologne.
Although I love the fragrance,
it is worthless as my Pure Sport deodorant,
and my crew-neck t-shirts
that hug my body
and appear pressed
when I’m without you.

Under the Stairs

I pass the chemical plant
by the trestle on the way home
and the smell of sulfur in the air
brings me to the back door
of the house on Boulder View Drive.
Usually barricaded by a lawn mower,
tools, and cases of silver cans
with bold black lettering: B-E-E-R—
you know, the old ones with the
pullback tabs.
Four wooden stairs out to the backyard
we had a fort there,
under the stairs.
We would play with matches,
hoard discoveries like old Playboys—
that the perv at the card shop sold us—
polished rocks, supposed arrowheads,
candy, rubber snakes, and fake dog shit.
Our prized possessions were daggers
that we made with a bike handlebar grip
and a stick sharpened to a dull point
on the cement of our blacktop
double-driveway, or on one of the large rocks
that made our street a dead end.
At school nearby we were told that
Indians used them as drums,
but now under the stairs, at age nine,
they separated the neighborhoods
and created rival soccer teams.
We weren’t supposed to go over there
or to let anyone in
so we stayed away and were told not
to talk to strangers even though
we knew their kids.
Ryan was nice enough, even though
he lived on the other side of the rocks,
even though he had to take a different bus
to get to school.
We should have let him in.
Maybe then the man at the card shop
wouldn’t have got to him.

Hyannis, MA

I was always willing to play the cruel older brother
chasing you—two chubby kids running on the pavement,
our feet black-bottomed and blistered
from never wearing sandals.
Remember the peanut butter & jelly sandwiches
we had on the way out to the Cape—
packaged in tinfoil, teeter-tottering on the edge
of the second row seat,
that fell victim to the musty sand-covered floor mats
of the family caravan.
It was your fault that I forgot my glasses—
blue, circular lenses, like the ones John Lennon wore;
at least that’s what the Phishhead cashier at that store
in Provincetown said.
I left them in the side compartment of the backseat
where you kept your multicolored bouncy balls
that we got from the flea market
where we stole those novelty pop fireworks
you throw at the ground.
Maybe you would remember the rusty Chock Full O’Nuts can
that we peed in so we didn’t have to stop along the way.
I know, well, you’ve got to remember when the cops pulled us over—
Dad was pissed.
That stupid Dunkin Donuts box we tore apart and threw out the window.
Perhaps we should’ve thrown the donuts out instead.
I bet you do remember that beach with the huge wooden staircase
built right into the dunes.
Mom and Dad were proud of themselves having climbed it up and down;
they always were overweight.
I’m sorry, although at the time it was funny,
my wet sandy towel, the crack on your lower back,
the people whose necks snapped to look
at the awkward chubbiness
of our family vacation.

Harold and the Purple Crayon

I look around my cubicle,
gray ceiling and manila phone.
I curse the white sterile walls.
Why can’t I draw on them
a purple door that I remember so vividly?
Or fill the electrical socket with green Play-Doh—
the patchwork of a child, high in sodium, yum.
To use snots as weapons:
some, when rolled in a ball,
release from your finger while others remain stuck.
Likewise dead-or-live bugs in the kitchen
or the mysterious scraps of toilet paper
you find in the men’s room
serve as ammo to throw
at the new girl in accounting.
To make music with your armpits,
mimicking farts
with lips to closed hands.

Hi-C and Calamine Lotion

It was on a Monday I sat,
late for work, in a pediatrician’s office,
waiting for my immunization records.
How awkward to sit with mothers and children,
sick and crying, with wet diapers,
waiting for the prognosis of the latest
sandbox plague.
I should have made an appointment
or had the doctor fax them.
But there I sat, watching sick school children
play Pokemon or whichever non-educational craze
swept their elementary schools this week.
One child stood alone.
I watched him play with a plastic multicolored abacus.
His mother hands him a juicebox,
green and yellow like Slimer from Ghostbusters.
Although it appeared a gallon in his hands,
he took control, wrestling the wrapper off
the red straw.
How innocent he is, not knowing that straw
will earn him detention in later years
when he learns the arts of spitballs.
He came toward me and I asked if he could do a tumblesault.
But he bashfully returned to the leg of his mother,
his perch to sit and wonder, perhaps,
why he cannot talk to strangers, or perhaps,
how the green elephant on the wallpaper
got chickenpox.

Boston Whaler Blues

Can’t we just go fishing?
Take that drive down Route 1
with Allie’s Donuts on the way—
glazed crullers and coffee milk.
The smell of our old wood paneled
caravan uniformed in once tan interior,
carefully littered with beach sand
and remnants of youth and wet dog.
It won’t take long once we get to the cottage:
a five gallon bucket with a box of frozen squid,
the green tackle box filled with rusty hooks,
steel leaders, four ounce sinkers and
expensive lures we’ve never used.

Can’t we just go fishing?
Let’s get farmer tans and just drift
like the time we lost the propeller
and had to get towed to shore by a jet ski.
You and me on the Whaler,
our lines in the water, talking
like fathers and sons once did.
Perhaps the fish below are
immersed in the same debate:
the son wanting to leave home
to chase the bait;
the father weary,
well aware of the hooks.

You used to take a cooler of beer
that we could’ve gotten in trouble for
because I was underage.
Now, you can’t have booze on a boat anymore.
It figures that now that I can drink by age
we cannot drink on the water.
But maybe that’s why you won’t go fishing.

Indian Rock Farm Road

An aged birdbath serves as an eerie reflection
of its once white color,
reminded by the flakes and chips of paint
strewn about the unkempt lawn,
as it splits the symmetry of the backyard.
The two paddleboats overturned,
tarpaulin-adorned,
adjacent to the Sunfish in their resting places
of off-season months.

The old wooden swing there between the trees
creates a shadowed hideout when the sun is high.
How it caused turmoil among siblings and cousins—
“Open Sesame,” some could enter.
“To the dungeon,” others could not.
The chains that supported the swing
cost Mark the tip of his youth
and backyard football stardom.
“Better a finger than his life,” Aunty Laurel said.
Severed, it dangled from the chain,
forever tainted like the thick rope
that hung loosely from the big oak tree.

There, up on the hill,
an old couple used to summer there.
They were always “discontent with their marriage.”
That’s what our parents told us.
But we knew something happened.
We were told to stay away from that tree,
because of its story and all.

Warwick Public

As I look up at the ceiling,
lights suspended, bulbous,
looking like breasts,
I think of the asbestos-ridden
drop-in tiles of my elementary school.
Lost on a school trip,
I panic and scan the stacks,
nine years old again,
dreading another encounter
with the drunkard janitor
whose ramblings escaped the
surgical mask he wore.
Now, fifteen years later,
I think he may fear bird flu,
or contracting HIV from the junkie
in the bathroom
dishing out blowjobs for a buck.
I’d like to think he actually read
those books whose pages he turned
so tenaciously with latex-gloved hands.
Maybe he actually knew who Whitman was
and that he liked the cock
and the idea that Shakespeare’s sonnets
were written for a teenage boy—
this library literally excites him.
And here I sit and wonder
what drove this old man to madness.
Perhaps, we are alike,
and wonder if Whitman would care to know
that his leaves are paperbacked and dusty
on the bottom shelf.

Bad Breath and Audacity

I saw a lunch aide from my elementary school
at the local pharmacy the other night.
We used to call her thunderthighs
in the yard at recess.
But that night, I was able to pass by her
to get my toiletries.
Surely I could’ve chosen another aisle.

She still has oversized glasses
as uncool in ’93 as they are now.
Her body is seamless,
having no defined hips, stomach,
ass, nor breasts; just a protruding
bulge of sedentary lifestyle.
She wasn’t as large as I recalled—
it’s been over a decade since
I saw her last.

I was ahead of her in line as I
realized there were some
spearmints to the left of me.
I stepped out of line.
I’ll admit I’ve called others out
for doing so,
But I stepped right back into line,
still ahead of old thunderthighs.
I bought my things and was on my way.

Out to the car now,
I turn the key with my foot on gas
and caught myself looking
in the mirror,
distracted.
She stepped in front
of my car.

Please and Thank You

I pretended not to make eye contact
with either of you at the bar.
It was nice to finally meet him face-to-face,
isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?
You introduced us,
but I was fine not saying hello.
He and I had no genuine embrace,
no friendly handshake, conversation,
nor laughs, as if we were meant
to be friends.
But I knew his face and name already
from dance pictures hanging near your bed
in your dorm room—
I felt he was watching me when I used to
come on your bare breasts.
I reminded him that I knew who he was
when I kissed you on the cheek, goodbye.
I shook his hand and another time it happened:
I’m just some nice guy you knew from undergrad
that he has conveniently never heard about.
I’d almost rather that he knew
that I fucked you
five years ago.

Thursday, Post Road

A path cleared in the middle
of a two-way street.
Cars pulled over on each side,
forced to follow suit and stop,
I looked to the left and to the right.
There were no children
crossing with teacher,
nor was there a pregnant woman
with toddler at her side,
not even a boy scout helping
a geriatric struggling with groceries
trying to cross.
Just an obese lady
riding a bike nearly in the middle
of Post Road, listening to her iPod.
I began to feel bad for the bike seat
but then I heard the screeching siren
of the fire truck
that ran her over.

Olneyville Square

He stands in the August heat,
bearded with clothes and a heavy coat,
transferring change from a coffee cup
into his pants pocket.
Around his neck, a cardboard sign
made from a pizza box
and a nylon cord
from a bundle of newspapers
reads “I NEED CHANGE,”
in black marker.
Earlier in the morning,
I saw him reading the paper,
sitting atop the stack from which it came,
as I waited for the pharmacy to open.
I followed him curiously to the stationary aisle
where I saw him shove a Sharpie into his pocket
so quickly, as not to be seen,
that it ripped its seam.
Hours later, he paces frantically
looking through his pockets
to quiet his grumbling stomach
or the voices inside his head,
only to find a hole.

"I'm Catholic"

She had dyed black hair;
black surrounded the white
polka dots on her oversized
vinyl purse.

Alone she stood, while others
sat, leaned on, and knelt below
the church pews.
Her pale calf trumped her thin ankle
as it disappeared into a silver dance flat
leaving no clue as to what color her toenail
polish was on Good Friday.

Supposedly devout male parishioners
collected offerings—
their grandchildren play basketball
in CYO recreation.
Members of the congregation softly placed
coins in the velvet covered baskets;
the more they give, the more they care.
Not to be found out as cheapo or sinner,
others offer the kind that folds.

Lines formed and I was told we were
to go “venerate the crucifix,”
and myself ignorant of where to kiss,
in a hurry was humbled to kiss his feet.

Afterwards, I looked to find the girl in black—
like me, younger, out of place,
perhaps to joke about our cluelessness
or maybe a vain inquiry on how many germs
she thought were on that wooden whatchamacallit.

House on Brightside Court

Oldest child, last one home,
I locked the door,
turned out the front light
that brightens our three-step stoop
and reaches and reveals
the cracking concrete and decay
of the driveway.

Little Alyssa wanted some water
before bed,
so I turned to the fridge—
a week old, half-eaten rotisserie chicken,
fat gelled over, better off in the freezer.
There’s plenty of ice when you’re not here
and I don’t have to hear Mom bitch about
you chewing it, the sound of your frustrations.
I turned off the maker this morning, good.

I went out to dinner again
‘cause you weren’t around
to do whatever it is that you do
since Mom works seventy hours.
I bought sugar today—
you know how she loves her coffee.
I set the automatic brewer
for quarter of five in the morning.
I hope that’s early enough for her
to fill her cup
before another twelve hour day
to come home to TV and your snoring—
morning comes quickly, sometimes four hours.
She’ll iron her scrubs and spray perfume
to extinguish the decay
that surrounds
this household
gone astray.

Yard Debris Only

My hands rub against the bamboo rake,
forming piles and blisters,
while wind-chapped skin and
a hangnail bitten too far down
draw blood.
The smell of a dampened October afternoon
averts me to childhood and being hit
with a soccer ball in my venous chubby thigh.
While the chilled breeze of early November
reminds me to leave the window open
and not wear socks to bed
so I may enjoy the cold sheets.
I wonder about the green sweatshirt
I used to wear as a young boy
and why I chose to chew holes in the sleeves
to stick my thumbs through.
Holes larger than one left by a rusty nail
in just the right spot
so it disables wear for occasions
outside yard work.
I watch the leaves fall in peanut brittle colors
slow motion to the lawn.
The crumbling of dried leaves
under fast moving cars on Main Avenue
remind me of how quickly the workweek will pass.
And I will be here another weekend
because Mr. Burnstein is too lazy a neighbor
to care about the leaves being blown
from his yard to mine.

Night Train

It’s not often that I ride the train
into Manhattan by myself.
Although the dulled blue and red seats,
worn by time and its travelers,
provide comfort,
sinking with a familiar sound
of air escaping through any holes
or unstitched seams.
I look around at the train’s inhabitants—
good thing we are all headed to the same city,
for the running lights above
take their turn to shine.
The posters are run down like dated drapes
from your great-grandmother’s living room.
This one here is for Mama Mia on Broadway,
from two summers ago.
The luggage racks are no more than twisted metal.
The sways of the train take me side-to-side,
shake me back to the sixth grade
and the school bus which shook
like a crackerjack box on wheels
tossed along the road like the
magazines, coffee cups, and flyers left behind
on the floor of this train.
And I will spend the rest of the ride
trying to avoid the half eaten donut
the man next to me has placed between us
on the seat after pronouncing it “stale.”
A pen rolls to my feet.
It doesn’t write, it scratches.
Screech, the train brakes
and the yellow light above the door flashes
as I hear the conductor’s voice,
“Penn Station.”

City Squirrels

As a cab nearly runs over a squirrel
in the street near Central Park,
I notice all the clusters of leaves
strategically placed in the tree branches
with the diligence of survival.
We too scurry around the city
from place to place—
Penn, maybe Grand Central,
to the subway and through the streets
to find a small Italian place on 57th.
We take a cab to cheat time
to our reservations before the show
and pass a homeless man
building his nest for the night.
While we spoil ourselves,
free to come and go
from the island to the city—
he rushes to find and collect
leaves, cardboard boxes, and plastic bags,
forced to create refuge from refuse
while we talk over dinner
about design places for our second home.
Blocks away and hours earlier,
the beats and bulls waved papers frenetically—
some snatched, some crumbled, some fell to the floor—
the mess of garbage created;
for some, savings lost;
for others, toilet paper gained.

C-A-K-E, 10 Points

It was yesterday that I sat beside you
and beat you at a game of Scrabble
over shared coffee
and a piece of marble cake.
When did it come into standard
that I have to play by the rules
while I watch you steal tiles and
use the dictionary to find a word
you’ve never heard before
as if I’m not paying attention
to your every move.
It’s almost painful to let you “have
the triple word score” and record
only twelve points.
I suppose it’s okay after all
because you invited me to play.
I won and I got to eat your cake.
But as usual, you drank all but one sip
of the coffee
not because you didn’t want to share
or because you felt bad that it
started off as mine
but mostly because you knew that there
were crumbs of cake backwashed to the
bottom of the mug
like the Q you threw back
into the bag for me to use.
That’s okay because I like crumbs
and all of this
was quite delicious.
Oh yes, you left me the Q.
Q-U-I-P, triple word score, 45 Points.

Montauk

For the first time in eleven days,
I lie alone in my bed
after having to press my clothes.
Tomorrow will come,
and for lunch I can only hope
for some fresh Italian bread and cold cuts
instead of heading over to East Lake Road
to try that seafood place above the fish market
raved about by the locals.
We watched the sun fall into the water—
red and yellow extinguished behind the breakers—
and we waved to the fishing boats
returning from a long day.
Now only scenes of you and me remain:
walking down the pier
admiring boats we could only wish to afford—
I wonder if that one was really Billy Joel’s.
And what about that hundred-footer?
I can only imagine.
We sat poolside with drinks—
yours a bay breeze, mine a rum and cola—
and speculated who owned the white Bentley
in the parking lot of the yacht club.
I still can’t believe that cars and boats that expensive
just sit there in place all day.
The cork knocks of your espadrilles
on the docks echo rhythm of these days gone by.
No more polo shirted, sunglass-tanned, flip-flop bliss,
equidistant from tennis court and poolside bar.
Today vacation has ended;
tomorrow, our distance from one another
returns as routine.

Messy

I took the last cotton ball
from your drawer
where you keep your things at my place.
I used it to tone my skin
with your astringent,
cleaning my face temporarily
with your texture.
I dare not use your other stuff—
shave gel, smelling of lilac and something flowery,
deodorant, strong enough for a man,
clearly made for a woman,
a purplish-pink razor, and your toothbrush—
actually, I’ve used that several times.
But those Orbit gum wrappers
I find all over my car—
in the door,
on and under the front seats
are different.
I caught you last time,
although in a cute way,
your sneakily subtle approach
to dropping a wrapper in the ashtray
as if to trade
for a quarter, nickel, or dime
for coffee.
As if your stuff in the drawer
doesn’t take up enough space,
I found three of your Starbucks’ cups
in my backseat.

Our Parade

Last night I made my bed with you
under the sheet.
Tonight, you’re one-hundred-ninety-three
miles away, again.
You don’t take up too much space
and little comfort is lost in our debate
over who will get the “good” down pillow—
even though it is mine.

Another night we’ll say our goodnights
over the phone and our discourse
will consist of your noted absence
from the nook of my chest and shoulder
where you fit perfectly.

I worry more when it’s you that makes the drive
and I’ll admit that you travel more often
and I am left to lose sleep in contemplation
of days-and-nights gone by
without you here with me in my bed.
I can only hope for fifteen hour days of exhaustion
when you’re not around
so I may lie quietly,
staring at the digital display
of my alarm clock
knowing that I won’t fall asleep.