Woman II

She appears as my waitress
and critiques my penmanship.
I give her my order
but she returns
empty-handed
then leaves
with the short-order cook.
Driving home
I can't get her reflection
out of my rearview mirror.

Stella Tennant

Bagging Groceries for a Song and a Dance

Little Miss What's-Her-Face arrived about an hour ago
trailing an entourage of Lhasa Apsos.

They wasted no time getting down to begging.
What a fiasco!

I thought she'd become persona-non-grata
after her last appearance in the middle of a sidewalk sale

lip-syncing one of the arias from Madame Butterfly.
It turned into a veritable nor'easter.

Coast Guardsmen, armed with postscripts from nominees,
were dispatched in of all things bonnets.

Evidently It's a Wash

Apparitions with arms akimbo fill the streets.
We put our plans on hold.
Visions of popcorn dance on our graves.
We had hoped to start from scratch but time ran out.
Instead we join situation comics
in the land of makebelieve
to capture the colors of chameleons.
Before embarking on our quest,
we sit down with cider and doughnuts
at the neighborhood supermarket.
They are superb conversationalists.
I am bedazzled by the constellations
of canned soups and decide
to spend a few days as a vacation of sorts
on the shelf in aisle E.

Strange Evening #5

Did you wait for that strange evening
to look in on you while you slept
replacing the tiles in your bathroom
to confuse you further
replacing the faint song that welcomed you
at so late an hour
the song you wrote lyrics for
and loved to sing to the guests
who arrived after months of travel
in the middle of a rainstorm?

Wild Turkeys

Again this morning in the pasty light
harbinger of another scorcher

wild turkeys plucked grubs
with the accuracy of archers

then pattered past me single file
along the stone wall and into the woods.

Exhibition(ist)

The skin of the painting suggests the fired surface of a ceramic object*:

(her) skin:

The singular first impact combined with the iconographic imagery is both naive and elegant:

naive and elegant

The paintings display a deep-seated belief in the love of the surface achieved by complex means:

paintings

Subsequent viewings vibrate with joy:

with

The images are simple yet deeply satisfying:

deeply

The relationship between the intuitive and the controlled is seductive:

seductive

providing memories of ephemerality and evanescence.

memories

*Ron Ehrlich Exhibition Catalog (Stephen Haller Gallery) 2004

A Turn of Fate  by Ron Ehrlich

Woman I

Her legs encircle my dreams.
There's so much mystery
I keep losing my place.
The morning coffee barks
and the dogs perk.
I am beside myself.
I think of coupons.
Midday, I twirl,
and have taken up ventriloquism
at the local mannequin shelter.

Lying  by Egon Schiele

Mooring

Instead she slithered into a short skirt
and danced away memories
catching his eye, and his cold.

Outside, a gnome practiced the alphabet
as they slid into the gray hearse
that first night for the long talk home,

their breaths intermingling at minus five.
A pas de deux was followed by cappuccinos
and more;

eyes, for the first time in years,
or so she thought,
caressing every word

that crossed her full red lips.
Later, they would check each other's vitals,
and vow to lead a healthier life,

filled with music and flowers.
Math problems and pasta were listed
among their credits,

a new voice lifting them above the drone
of the supermarket checkout line.
They held each other with dreams

that last night in the parking lot
while the band played on and on,
knowing the white house would spring up

like a rude mushroom,
and send them crashing to earth
all too suddenly.

Greta Garbo

Updiked At Sixteen

A twelve-year-old
does figure-eights

on his barleycorn-flavored bicycle
in the church parking lot.

He will remain fatherless.
His widowed mother

stands on the corner of their street
with checkered flag,

posting the finishers
to the 1961 Indianapolis 500.

A keypunch operator,
she spends her days in a scriptorium,

with Hollerith at her fingertips.
Two blocks away in a five-and-dime,

the twelve-year-old,
now sixteen,

is about to discover Pigeon Feathers,
remaindered,

is about to be sheparded
beyond the lumber of English 11

and into the hills
alive with the sound of Muzak.

Capturing Moments with Sharpies

We do not remember days, we remember moments.
          - Cesare Pavese

You could swear you’ve been here before
this scene from the Age of Innocence
but you don’t remember whether you were with anyone -
anyone worth remembering that is.
You remember being upstaged at Starbuck’s
your five minute car wash
a five hour trance with a bumper buffer.
You can’t imagine what you were thinking
so you retrieve your journal entry
and take out the Sharpies.
Your aptitude refreshed you remember
that you were trying to master
the Art of the Wheel
(Is that why your father is here?)
No, that’s not it.
Return to something more telling.
The grape arbor that summer afternoon in Sedona?
The white sandy beach in a cove off the tip of Provincetown?
What about that walk through the snow?
Ducking into a small bistro to get out of the rain?
Now you’ve become a twitching hyperbolic saint
dispensing Pez to the polloi.
More retelling.
It was here before you.
These fields of dreams, these homes, these people.
You managed to botch the last still life
and you’re still in the game.
But that’s the name of the game, isn’t it?
Your soul – did I say soul? – wasn’t into it.
Nor was your body.
You were shortchanged, but nonetheless you pocketed the coins
and smiled into the camera.
Fancy that!

Ivan Efimov

Once Removed

I was distinguished at twenty and lost consciousness at eight.
The story unfolded despite my efforts.
I was left alone without provisions.
After a while, a pram approached.
I climbed aboard and rode to the end of the line.
Several custodians applied for the position
which was surprisingly faceted.
It took me quite a while to figure things out.
There's no U-turning here, you know.
If pressed, several would have made the same choice.
What could I have done?
I was tempting fate but in the wee hours who doesn't?
The coursework of course helped
as one would have expected
and besides I had plenty of time
to hone my skills and shop for groceries.
The margins were drawn in bold colors
which made the whole thing somewhat tolerable.
Without proper footwear, I would not have made it.
But here I am, as singular as ever, happy as a tribe.
You should have seen the expression.
 

Chair Once Removed  by John Trefethen

 

Exultation

You wake early
with the first slant rays
with the first faint chirping
with the quiet hum of the fan
and you lie there
for a moment
and let daybreak
wash over you
slowly
slowly
before you reach for the book
that slipped
late last night
from your tired hands.

My Favorite Chef

          for Catharine McHugh

Even in my dreams
I cannot prepare dishes
as tasty
as my favorite chef's.
She knows the soul
of food
and the landscape
of the table
and the secret
of preparing culinary gifts
with magic hands.


The Little Pastry Chef  by Tom Corrado



From: A History of the World in Four-Line Feeds: Part 18.3

A stretch limo.
A what?
He left in a stretch limo.
I’ve been accused of channel surfing

and biting my nails.
And worse.
Worse?
I’ve been accused of stink eye.

Stink eye?
Yes, stink eye.
I’d like seconds if I may.
We don’t have time.

Look in the clock!
The clock?
The clock.
Look in the clock!

The Hardy Boys.
Who?
The Hardy Boys.
While the Clock Ticked.

I had the whole series – all 190 original mysteries.
Yes, and?
A connection.
How so?

Pass the daguerreotypes, please.
We need all the help we can get.
Holmes and Watson.
221B.

Basil Rathbone and Nigel Bruce.
My favorites!
Did something happen
at the fork in the road?

Was a CIA graduate involved?
Will we ever know?
Wait. There are voices in the walls.
What?

Voices in the walls.
Listen.
Is this as it should be
or as it should have been?

I have no idea.
Did I say something to upend you?
I don’t think so.
Just keep reading the book

from sea to shining sea.
It's all there:
all the questions,
all the answers.

A team of horses.
Where?
A team of horses
cantering through the afternoon.

Ladies and gentlemen!
Hedge your investments!
No cab awaits your departure.
No bell ends the round.

The season has changed.
The community room has been repainted
for incoming Freshmen
ill-formed products of texting

truncated, housebroken.
Laden with knock-offs?
Gloomier than Milton.
Idols of the kings and queens of darkness.

Last night, a woman appeared in my dream.
Barcode tattooed to her cheek.
Kindle embedded in her thigh.
Hijacked with wonder and glitz.

I was entranced.
She was trying to tell me something.
Something about the old neighborhood.
What?

A vase of delphiniums on the table.
My mother climbing the stairs.
The hiss of the stove.
Kukla Fran and Ollie!

You can’t go home again!
Why?
Edits, redos, rehabs, regrets!
I warned you!

Time for another patdown.
Already?
If they want to, they will.
You know it as well as I.

Yes, but what about escape?
Not a chance.
But it’s worked for some.
Name one.

I can’t right now.
But I know I know.
All glory is fleeting.
Huh?

George C.
It was here. The battlefield was here.
Stop it!
Your memories will collect dust.

Irregularities will intrude.
Wrong numbers.
Misplacements.
Things will fade.

Become sepia’d.
Do I have a choice?
None.
The clock is relentless.

Near Paradox

The road signs up here
remind me of the Burma Shave posts
of forty years ago

flicking out words
a few at a time
giving the edge

to speed readers
and slow drivers.
And the residents too

in their clapboards
with indoor plumbing
looking up

from their board games
bewildered
hoping perhaps

that their ship
has come in
and maybe it has

or soon will
who's to say?
And the landscape too

in layers of snow
mute testimony
to nature's muscle.

One can imagine
a post office here
with an elderly postmistress

plying townsfolk
with freshly-baked oatmeal cookies
presented in a floral tin

with smiles
and small talk
a squeaky clothesline

with frayed undergarments
stiff
from the cold night air.

Strange Evening #4

Did you wait for that strange evening
to ask for your forgiveness
with the remedy locked
in the medicine cabinet
with sides the color of rust?
This will be the last time
you search for the missing piece
from the Erector Set
you hid in the basement
after a stranger told you
he knew the color of hiding places.

Casanova

with daybreak
his gaze shifts
from her nipples
to the mole
in the small of her back
to her thick thighs
protruding anklebone
to the window
and the swans
circling
in the distance

I Am My Own Best/Worst ___

Wait. I don’t want to start like this.
Too late. We’re rolling.

A tall-masted ship tumbling into view.

I think it was called My Best Friend.

We cannot go on meeting like this.
Too much wasted.
I’m rather set in my ways.
Besides, I’ve got to get to the supermarket.

Interviews with incidental individuals?

Secular souls from the pages of then.

Your iPhone is on autofill
but, I must admit, your comeuppance is rather charming.

I wish I had the wherewithal to capture the moment.
It is the moment that matters, isn’t it?

With a CV like that how can you go?
Where?
Where what?

A dress code for the 20-teens.

Shouldn’t be much of a problem to clear the decks.
And begin anew?
Perhaps.
Do you think her credentials are impressive?
Unless they’ve changed.
So, is that a yes?

I have tall ships on the brain.
No idea why.
Landlubber-of-the-year here.

I was accosted by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was overwhelmed by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was unimpressed by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was undertaken by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was scrutinized by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was transformed by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was teased by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was caressed by the labyrinth of his/her words.
I was shortchanged by the labyrinth of his/her words.

There were so many cheap shots in aisle 7
I ran hyperventilating from the store and back to the library carrel
where I had left my spiral notebook of

A. jottings
B. scribbles
C. bread crumbs
D. breaths
E. regrets
G. sketches
H. fantasies
I. all of these
J. some of these
K. none of these

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

After a Run, At Bruegger’s

We inhabit our delusions
dumbly fueled by the run
squirreling-away fantasies
with the perseverance
of rare book collectors
redeeming them
when the weather report
jolts us out of our haze.
We think we can pump iron
with the best
and in the silence of our bathrooms
tick off aging’s onslaught
applying elixirs
to best all mind’s comers
and convince ourselves
that we can entertain
any invitation
any departure
squinting with all our might
at the long-legged shoppers
as we suck in our stomachs
sip the house blend
and smile through the remainder
of our crooked yellowing teeth.

Circus

The circus was in town last week.
There were jugglers and acrobats
a bearded fat lady
a thin man with tattoos
a woman who sold spider webs
a gap-toothed giant in a baseball uniform.
He rode around in a little car
and handed out fortune cookies to kids.
There were plenty of things to do -
rides, cotton candy, candy apples
and goldfish in tumblers.
The goldfish recited nursery rhymes
to the tune of a tuba
suspended in mid-air
by the wave of a magician's wand.
Even the Siamese twins brightened
at the thought of someone's hand
being quicker than the eye.
The elephants giggled
and rode the Ferris wheel
around and around.
Everyone guessed everyone else's weight.
There were lines a mile long
for the fortune teller
who used an enormous deck of cards
to tell fortunes.
She had only one good eye
and wore a bandana.
She spoke with an accent.
It was hard to understand her.
In the evening, fireworks lit up the sky.
We could see ourselves in the Fun House mirrors.
A sword swallower handed out
free passes to a midnight show
called Midnight with the Clowns.
It was fun while it lasted.

Blackberries

When I lived closer I'd keep things cleaner,
weeding the bushes every now and then.

I had this pair of blue coveralls -
Frank sewn in red over the left pocket,

the name of my friend's father,
who repaired radiators

till the acid ate his lungs.
I'd pull on the coveralls,

wade into the blackberry bushes
and pick away, protected.

I've stopped by again today
to see how my father's doing.

It's August and he's eighty-six.
He's asked for some blackberries,

so I'm out here, in shirt and tie,
picking.

By the Same Token

And by the same token
with eyes locked on smudgy newsprint

we take the subway to the Botanical Garden
in Brooklyn

where fish, golden, a few white
and turtles, two, three, four

surface to the pleasure of onlookers
mostly out-of-towners

who later will face traffic jams
and late night return trips

on lonely upstate two-lanes
nodding off despite the blathering FM

and arrive victorious
this time at least

but now for a few hours
shifting gears

to enjoy this overcast, drippy day
among the nametagged greeneries

with their guileless choreography
and faintly Mendelian humor.

House

I would climb the wooden stairs to the attic
where I had set up the porch glider
I'd found in the basement
with its flaked pea-green paint
and vinyl cushions covered with cotton sheets
and sit there
and read
and write
and doze
sometimes in eighty-five degree heat.
From there I could see
the garage and blacksmith shop
chicken coop, grape arbor
flower and vegetable gardens.
From there I could keep things
in perspective.
That place was whatever I wanted it to be
and it stayed that way
through my fiftieth year
when the things that change with time changed
and I sold it
with its pocketfuls of memories.

Screwdriver

I keep a tiny screwdriver
shorter than a thumb
in a wooden cigar box
on the dresser
in my bedroom.
I use it to tighten the screws
on my glasses
when they get loose
which I usually notice
while shaving
or brushing my teeth
in the morning
which is why
I keep it in the bedroom.
I've been keeping it there
for about forty years now.
If friends or relatives
were to find the tiny screwdriver
in the wooden cigar box
they'd think nothing of it
or maybe assume
it got there by chance
like the patterns of leaves
on a sidewalk.
But they'd be wrong.
It's there for a reason.
And when that reason comes along
I reach in
take out the tiny screwdriver
and tighten the screws.
No rummaging around.
No wondering where I'd left it.
Just reach in and take it out.
Simple as that.

Sharpener

And with the overcast day comes second grade,
50-plus years ago, lined with marble
composition tablets, its wood and wrought-iron desks
bolted in tandem to the floor,
mimicking the lockstep lessons
dispensed with religious fervor
by the sisters of St. Felicia -
full habits hiding thick red hair.
A pencil sharpener sits on the window sill.
It was either there,
a few steps to the sharpener with a #2
or a trip, following interrogation -
the urgency of the request signified
by holding one's crotch
first with one hand then with both
while rocking back and forth -
to relieve oneself in the boys' room,
the walk back through the cavernous halls
as slow as a dead man's.
This morning I am at the pencil sharpener,
shortening in slow motion a yellow hexagonal Ticonderoga,
dreaming about a stream filled with brookies,
scales glistening in the wet sun,
while looking out at the cemetery across the street
where the dearly departed, engaged in board games,
await the final roll call.

Strange Evening #3

Did you wait for that strange evening
to rehearse your regrets
to mix them with pigment
and paint them out of the picture?
The old man at the door
says he knows you.
He's waiting in the living room
where circus clowns have gathered
to compare notes.
Your mother and father
are there too, dressed down,
as you will always remember them.
The smiles on their faces
cast shadows which the clowns
will use in their act. Why continue
looking through the phonebook
when you know they've all moved away?
When you know they don't want to
hear from you ever again?

After

after we'd eaten Big Macs at Mickey D's
after we'd entered a hard hat zone
after we'd picked up smokes at 7-Eleven
after we were born again
after we'd decided to take stock
          and reinvent ourselves
after the leasers coasted onto the breakdown lane
          with their Support Our Troops magnets
          clinging to their backsides
after mysterious lights welled up from the mud
          and shortstops stopped short
after the game went into extra innings
after gas guzzlers quit guzzling
          and car pools dried up
after kids were bused to school
          and school bus drivers recited by heart
          lines from Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
after kids were busted for just saying YES
after your best friend did a line and died
after the keynoter lost the keys to the Magic Kingdom
after we'd decided to cash in our markers
after migrant workers skipped town
          and wait staff took extended coffee breaks
          and kept customers waiting
after the days dwindled down to a precious few
after the black cloud went in for a repaint
after porn stars burned their toys
          and buffalo soldiers moved to Newark
after the rain
after she lost her crayons
          and began coloring with her fingers
after the thrill was gone
after it was once upon a time
after poets left the country trailing lines
          more obscure than Fermat's Theorem
after we'd listened to the music of the trees
          and translated lines from brother squirrel
after we had finished
after we'd trampled the unsuspecting
after the lights went out
          and clowns arrived with an EMT
after we'd taken our second cousin out for a bite to eat
          and closed the diner
after we were admitted
after we were committed
after we were convinced
          and encouraged
          and discouraged
after we were sentenced
after we were cut off
          and cut short
after the true meaning continued to elude us
after we'd thought it best to dismantle the pyramids
          put away the folding chairs
          the prize winning origami displays
          the maps of famous battle sites
          the flags
after we'd googled the names of the founding fathers
          and The Shining
after the seven wonders of the ancient world packed it in
after we'd had a brush with the law
          and a tete-a-tete with a door-to-door Fuller brush salesman
after we'd taken up a collection for the victim of a downsize
after we'd taken up with the neighborhood vegan
          and started from scratch
after we'd attended a party of the first part
after we'd gone back to square one
          and the terrible twos
          and Three's Company
          and the four seasons
          and five days off for good behavior
after the air traffic controller called us mid-flight
after we'd buried the dead
          and decided to devote our lives to Magic Squares
after we'd finished the assignment
          and the lesson plan
          the makeover
          the takeover
          the book report
          the annual report
          the remodeling project
after we'd counted the body bags
          and the spent shell casings
          and the empties
          and the atrocities
          and the lies
after we'd counted on one another for support
after we'd banged the drum slowly
after we'd thought it was finally over
          and the credits began to roll
          and the lights were turning up
          and the doors were opening
          the sun was shining
          the fat lady was singing
after

August

My older daughter
with her newly-pierced navel
and her friend
also newly-pierced
move down the beach
to watch the surfers.
My younger daughter
and her friend
tethered to boogie boards
high step the waves
between the two
lifeguard stations.
Big-wheeled baby strollers
skirt the edge of the water.
Dogs yap.
A biplane announces Happy Hour.
Mothers, two-pieced
and colorful, pass,
as the tide continues
its relentless advance.

Dry Run

As atwitter as redwing blackbirds
who can be quite ornery
not unlike certain custodians
of the public trust
who spend their days clipboarded in cubicles
awaiting the final tolling of retirement,
or those on the edge of the Great Abyss
who have overstayed their welcome
and their common sense
and pine for the good old days
with its handwoven tapestries
and wrought iron walkways,
are those who re-enter the fray each day
in real time no less
on the launch pad of life
for the long haul across the Great Divide
and into the homes of millions of reviewers
who have paid their dues
to say nothing of their cable bill
and are no doubt fully aware
of what awaits them around the bend in the river
with of course a fine print coda
spelling out in no uncertain terms
the 100 percent no-questions-asked-money-back-guarantee,
as if that really mattered.


Klaus Kinski in Fitzcarraldo (1982)

Break It Down

The occupant lives under the bed
nibbling at his love.
She continues to sort things out
trying to make it happen
trying to make ends meet.
Her education will come in handy.
The shell game however is over
the pea has been let go.
The sun is a sweet machine
making it a good day
to take some time off
before hiring oneself out
to the mattress company.
The classifieds bark
urging passersby to take stock
to find that certain someone.
Phoning home is a dead deal.
There's no one there.
The boxes stand in the hallway
videotaped, awaiting
the U-Haul stuck in traffic.
The rooms weep their emptiness
except the upstairs bedroom
where a few late-night intimacies
cower in the corner.

Francesca Woodman

It's August, and the Ponies are Running

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with my better judgment,
my better half, my worse half, my other half;
they're running away with my vacation, my vocation;
with my kids' education, my salutation, my edification;

they're running away with the plump-lipped waitress
in her too-tight uniform, in her too-short uniform,
in her tu-tu uniform;
they're running away with the short-order cook,
the dishwasher, the window washer, the windshield washer,
the loud customers, the cleavagers, the spin doctors.

It's August, and the ponies are running away
with my expectations, my aspirations, my inclinations;
with my best intentions, my worst nightmares;
with the free tees and handicappers,
with the gamblers, the scramblers, the midnight ramblers;

they're running away with the long shots,
the long run, the long ball, the long haul, the big fall;
with the potheads, the potholes,
the hotties with their rubberneckers,
the one-armed bandits and double-deckers,
the card sharks, the loan sharks, the great white sharks;
with the stacked decks and pole vaulters,
the pole sitters and baby sitters;

The ponies are running away with the weary travelers,
the thirst quenchers, the road crew bosses
and time-and-a-halfers;
with the running-on-empties, and pies-in-the-sky,
with the local history buffs and their jaundiced eye;

they're running away with the landscape,
the cityscape, the seascape, the escapees, the APBs;
the trees lining the tertiaries, the estuaries,
the innocent bystanders, the indigents,
the passersby, the groupies, the roadies, the loners;
with the home-schooled and home-brewed;
they're running away with the motley-crewed.

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with the one-tricks, the two cents,
the three blind mice, the four horsemen;
with the squanderers, the wanderers
the hangers-on, the barflies, the right wingers,
the left wingers, the middle-of-the-roaders, the Debra Wingers;
with the know-it-alls and straight shooters,
the forked tonguers, the mixers and remixers, the mixmasters.

It's August, and the ponies are running:

they're running, running, running;
running away with my severance pay, my brand new day,
my May day, my getaway, my AOK, my here-to-stay,
my hip hip hooray, my final say.

It's August, and the ponies are running.

Becoming Invisible

I am becoming invisible.
Cars speed past remorseless.
Passersby pass by
eyes wide open.
The cashier's pierced smile
dissolves into a Big Mac
instead of the chicken nuggets
I thought I'd ordered.
The express line bogs down
my Häagen-Dazs softens.
There is no next for me
no blue light special
no buy-one-get-one.
The man at the bus stop
knows this out of habit
hiding an avalanche of emptiness
in his wooden leg.
From the window seat
I listen to facades
recite the alphabet
mesmerized by their fullness.
A tom waits for a cab,
his heroic ways a subterfuge.
The revolving door has seen to that
and to this moment
as it bumbles along
inconspicuously
laden with partygoers
and quizzical hounds.

Robert and Shana ParkeHarrison

Evening Out

1
A quick flick and the naked bulb goes out.
The clock's red LED takes over
but the book resists and stays open
like an all-night diner.
You run your fingertips over the page.
You can take this story anywhere.

2
You are bicycling along a towpath.
A hurdy-gurdy struggles to be heard.
The river overflows
and remains in a holding pattern
capturing a sunset
on its tense surface.

3
Your mother sits on a small canvas folding chair.
She wears pedal pushers, and reads Ladies Home Journal.
Her bicycle leans on its kickstand.
Your father fishes.
He never wears shorts when he fishes.
Teens jump off a steel-decked bridge into the canal.

4
A restaurant quivers with early birds.
Bingo players begin arriving.
Mobiles hang from the washroom's tin ceiling
like bats waiting for handouts.
A well-intentioned sous chef
parses sentences in the corner.

5
You spin past, stopping now and then to read the shrubs.
Your fingers come in handy.
A boy scout troop has canoed a segment of the canal
and is setting up camp for the night.
The troop's leader carries a bag of merit badges
and is eager to share his expertise.

6
A huge oil barge engines through
leaving only fifteen feet on either side.
Several stand in awe.
Fishermen reel in their lives.
The bargemen pose for Brownies.
Beyond the canvas chairs an amusement park readies itself.

7
The evening fills with families, couples, solitaire players.
Their painted dispositions color the back seat
of a large, black, calm sedan.
Its driver makes the most of the eel flies
that crunch when the sedan rolls over them
on its way out.

2:40 AM

O. Winston Link and his assistant
chronicle the last days of steam

locomotives rumbling through town
four warning blasts at the crossing.

A Chinese takeaway enjoys a stem of Malbec.
You examine religious artifacts and collages

and a life drawing class
in the bedroom

captivated
by the mouth

and angle of shoulders
as she turns to read the script’s next line.

O. Winston Link

A Good Time for a Blueberry Muffin

Or so I thought, but then a baglady stalled the checkout line insisting she had the answer to this morning's Minute Mystery. The manager appeared with bowtie and dog-eared copy of Crisis Management and promptly swept her through the automatic doors and into the parking lot where she now stands, spouting, in the falsetto of a soccer mom, that she's married to the local storm window king, a mail-order-minister-cum-entrepreneur whose ads, identified by the outline of a fish, clutter the local cable. He will not be happy when he hears about her mistreatment. Meanwhile, the manager has leaned in for a word with the Sheriff of Nottingham, who seems to have eaten himself out of his tights which reminds me, I'd better pick up a bag or two of fish and chips. The bagboy at the end of the checkout line has the knowing smile of a Zen master. He has seen this all before two or three times.

On the Disappointment of Things Gone Wrong

          for Sandy Sheedy

We walk the breakers at the tip of Provincetown,
tide out, crossing to the lighthouse on the far shore,

you briefly topless. Offshore,
whale watchers scan the horizon for blowholes,

a sailboat sways. Later,
we return in water up to our shoulders,

boat shoes held high above my head -
you, in white shorts and t-shirt over black bikini,

hysterical with laughter.
We enter the Moors without a reservation,

bask in the jokes of the piano player,
wade through three or four beers

before being shown to a table
next to a group of young men

who include us in their celebration
of Marilyn Monroe,

as our Portuguese bread and Portuguese soup arrive
under a cloud of steam.

The Moors, Provincetown, MA

The Cobblestones, Especially

They've a mind of their own
scribbled on the wall of a faux ruin
fragments of Doric columns
lying about, a brown bagger's leftovers
smoldering in the heat.
There are plenty of stories like this
on public television
especially during pledge week.
The worldwide abhorrence of domestic chores
is one that comes to mind.
Or the railroad spreading west,
uprooting settlements,
plundering hair salons and delis
in full view of the early afternoon sun,
the lunchtime crowd barely out the door.
Or the service of tea in the basement
of an opera house, where the mold
speaks in tongues to those
born amid the dawning of the Age of Steel.
Can you imagine being responsible
for coordinating the playtimes of hundreds
while maintaining a strict radio silence?
Or comparing dishwashing detergents
using a standard metric?
Or what about editing a treatise
on doggy styles for seniors
with hearing impairments?
Are we really as fathomless
as we would like to believe?
A giant in the field of architecture
made that mistake while falling
head over heels for a fuzzy anchor
from one of the commercial networks.
She was the same giant -
bag and shoes perfectly matched -
who had insisted
that small colorful toy trains
with cute names like Toby and Tammy
be inserted randomly into boxes
of Cracker Jack.
Some have become collectibles
and occasionally show up on eBay.

Morphology

Inconsequentials and their associates
rear up, and you begin
writing down presenting symptoms
for your analyst, an Adlerian,
on sabbatical in Bimini.
You’ve dreamed of (dreaded?) this moment
for what, 10, 15, 20 years?
And of course the riff raff, accolades,
and, let’s not forget, the rush.
The angles of involvement begin -
a white-water-white-knuckle affair.
You panic and pack, withholding nothing,
consulting your jottings
with jittery fingers
the elements of reference out the window
and through the woods,
to grandmother’s house.
If only you had taken the time
to steel yourself against the moment -
the moment as anticipated, as rehearsed,
the moment now presiding
from the corner of your small, stuffy room,
teasing you, locking the door,
shouting, scribbling on the walls,
taking you back
to that theme park whose rides,
though fun for most,
were, for you, night terrors.

How It Works

Three of them cavort in the back seat
of a periwinkle stretch limo.
I am captivated by their sirens.

We stop for dinner and drinks
with cute little paper umbrellas
at a fancy restaurant with a French-sounding name.

The cute little paper umbrellas
keep opening and closing.
I am dizzy with delight.

We are shown to an intimate table
with intimate chairs by an intimate window
overlooking a choppy sea.

Our waiter brings us the house specialty.
We slather it with A1,
to the dismay of the animal rightists seated to our left.

A violist moves us with a little known etude
by the reclusive Sainte Colombe.
We tip her to the tune of twenty percent.

She sees our twenty and raises it twenty,
setting off a hostile musical takeover.
Our talk turns to lust and skin cream.

A cargo ship in distress
in the choppy sea below our intimate window
diverts our attention.

Lifeboats are commandeered.
For a while, it is touch and go.
The dinner parties play touch football

to amuse themselves.
The Donner Party eventually wins,
devouring the opposing team.

The ship's survivors are ushered into the restaurant
by waiters in waders
and taken to a large banquet hall.

The tables are turned,
unfolded,
and covered with leftover birthday wrap.

Rhubarb

In our sundown perambulations of late through the outer parts of
Brooklyn, we have observed several parties of youngsters playing base,
a certain game of ball. Let us go forth awhile, and get better air in
our lungs. Let us leave our close rooms. The game of ball is glorious.
          - Walt Whitman, Brooklyn Eagle, July 23, 1846

A mustachioed cabbie warms up in the bullpen
his yellow hybrid curbside idling with bookmakers
who only last week insinuated themselves
into a croupier's REM sleep.

The gaming table is a party of thirteen,
the room overrun by green walking sticks -
the kind seen in movies
when movies cost a quarter
and were shown back-to-back on Saturday afternoons.

One of them taps out Russian roulette.
Another holds up an old-fashioned large-faced clock.

Good afternoon, sports fans!

Win. Place. Show.
The ponies are ready to go.
Security is befuddled,
their orange nylon jackets billowing in the wind.

The first pitch is swung on.

The web-footed are on the mound.
Maybe now we can expect a shift in the market
and a change in the batting order.
The gulls, of course, couldn't care less
indifferent to the ancient yellow bulldozer
chuffing across the landfill.

The runner is stealing second base.

A dusty main street in a spaghetti western -
the ideal afternoon!
Is time running out?
The down-on-their-luck engage a Glass Bead Game
then take the Green Line to the stadium.
An APB is put out.
Someone's skiff arrives in a pepper mill's runoff.
Several escape through a hidden panel in the library -
a secret place filled with grandmothers from the Old Country
rocking away the hot summer afternoon
their Polish prayer books opened to the third inning.

There must be a God.
How else to account for this?

For many, a morning's reading of cereal boxes
segues into an afternoon of QVC.
Spiffiness aside, each one of us jockeys for a spin.

The windup, and the pitch.

A foothold will get most of us through
but only if we complete our tasks in a timely manner.
Perhaps a move to a warmer cubicle
will ensure that our fingers do the walking.
Could you please remind me again
of the plan's comprehensive benefits
before I move on to the parched middle
with my hot dog and beer?

Bases loaded, and the pitch.

Four short warning blasts:
a freight train lumbers through the crossing.
Three-fifty-five AM.
Newsies will soon begin sorting papers for the morning routes.
Later, migrant workers who cut asparagus
will break around a picnic table
eat lunch, smoke cigarettes, play cards,
listen to the game on the radio.

The plants are vigorous and disease-resistant,
a good bet for the majors.

The Glass Cat Sat

the glass cat sat
for five years
in the glass case
in the penny arcade

looking out
at the kids
who came
with quarters

to play
the games
for tokens
to cash in

for prizes
in the glass case
where the glass cat
once sat

Strange Evening #2

Did you wait for that strange evening
to pulverize the past
to underline the pop-psych texts
that spoke to you after-hours
that dared you to come closer
relegating your wishes
to the toy box you kept
for so many years
under your bed
beneath the stairs?
Listen.
The cat at the door brings tidings
from the charming little village
nestled deep in the wood
in the painting that hangs
over your fireplace.
Take note of the swallows
circling above the red barn
the one you snuck into
that summer afternoon
when you thought no one was looking.

Tall Barn  by Tracy Helgeson

Backwoods Woman

You've trained
the dogs well.
They meet my Jeep
as it turns
onto your long
rough drive,
yapping
at its wheels.
Wood cut and split,
neatly stacked.
Smoke rising
from the warmth
of your stove.

And Then What Happened?

I made my way along a narrow passage lined with faded photographs of strangers who had won Golden Book Awards. I found a scrapbook among the matchbooks on the back porch. It had been placed there under lock and key. I opened it and read the directions which were printed in Japanese with a fuzzy font. Nip it in the bud was the only thing I could make out. I rechecked the parts order just to be sure. The twins burst through the door of the trailer and began scrambling eggs with a marionette, mumbling tales about their grandfather, a WWII vet. It was obvious they were being stoic about something enormous left on the stoop with a note pinned to its trousers. A bright yellow Tonka dump truck took a dive. The twins panicked. A chef's torso stared out of the sleeper no doubt awaiting a curtain call. Bodies in motion in the weatherbeaten clapboards slipping past glued themselves to screens with Elmer's for the latest culinary treat. The lights dimmed. A disembodied voice informed us of the location of the emergency exits.

The Sommelier Stands Behind His Recommendation

Cowering, actually, in the fifty-five degree shadow
cast by the solitary sixty-watt hanging

from a cobwebbed cord seemingly as old
as the burgundies in their corked glass,

he samples the crimson surreptitiously,
as if lunatics were watching from the windowless walls,

his face reflected in the dimples of the tiny silver goblet
dangling from his creased neck.

Her First Bicycle

          for Hana

She calls it her bicyble,
and though I could've had the shop assemble it,
I wanted to do it myself.
I wanted to grease the axles
align the wheels
tighten the spokes, myself.
Not for the ten bucks
but for the peace of mind
knowing that I made it ready for her. 
In the store, she hopped on the floor model
and took off down the aisle,
the clerk marveling at this three-year-old's ability.
Like father like daughter, I thought.
And now we're out here
on the bike path,
waddling along,
loving it more than the Tour de France,
more than all other tours combined.
Some day soon, at her tugging,
I'll remove the training wheels.
We'll go to a park.
I'll help her keep balanced at first,
my hand placed, inconspicuously,
not to break her concentration.
Then, picking up speed
on some small grassy downhill -
'cause that's where the books say
kids should be taught to ride a two-wheeler -
I'll remove my hand,
while running alongside, and slowly
let her go.

Singing with Parched Tongue

With the incidentals tucked away
it was time to review the elements of the latest visit:
the left turns, blank pages, painted toenails.

Laying out on the deck in the sun
with a book
is always an interesting prelude

to a hike perhaps among the high peaks
or a visit to a gallery -
the specifics matter little

despite requiring a rewrite
as well as a trip
to Walmart or Boscov’s or Kohl’s or wherever

to pick up a cover-up
which with the right choreography
can excite with the intensity of a bright palette.

Instead, we target the eclipse
and drag out the telescope
peering through the lens as if we knew

which direction next:
the ranks pulled, lines drawn, shopping list edited
for the umpteenth time.

Horticulturist

1
His hands have turned into leaves
despite his advanced degrees
and his years on the lecture circuit
where college auditoriums welcome him
with handshakes phrased in the form of questions.

2
His iPad makes it happen,
informing the horticulturist's pub-crawling after-hours
where barkeeps
tight-lipped and loose-skinned
water his plants
and test his sobriety
as if their lives depended on it.

3
The horticulturist provides expert testimony
for the court stenographer's long fingers
while local cable stations
zoom in on the alleged parties
frolicking on the courthouse steps.

4
This is how it plays out
on those days when you least expect it.
Your number comes up.
But you've misplaced your ticket.
You begin searching through your papers,
emptying your pockets,
sprouting every excuse imaginable,

5
when suddenly the horticulturist appears,
his hands caked with mud,
his face soiled.
This is the least of your worries.

6
He offers the cutting edge in gardening tips
and in a weak moment you jot them down
and fax them to family and friends,
having received word from above
that you'll have some free time on the weekend
to spend in the garden
with a blue ribbon panel.

Inlaid with Cherry

My five-year-old
keeps red and yellow rubber jacks
in the jewelry box
he made
for her fourth birthday.

Strange Evening #1

Did you wait for that strange evening
to swallow hard
to snap at you like the rabid dog
from your childhood
that lived across the tracks
and ran wild
through the streets
of your small town?
A station wagon pulls in
and sits there, idling.
The clock ticks past reason.
The luggage and kitchen island
stare back at you
like the sound stage of your dreams
then tip the attendant
and leave without saying goodbye.