The Man Who Is Worn to Pieces — Selected Poems
Sheetrock Dreams
Let the night come
with its vague worries,
its sheetrock dreams,
its doorway perceptions.
I found a way back once
and lost it presently.
There were times
when I could cup my hands
to receive life
in its overflowing richness.
Darkness in the wee small hours,
quiet rooms,
gurgling sounds in the walls,
the upstairs neighbors
pitter-pattering,
the autumn air outside
trying to permeate
the apartment’s walls.
I’ve given in to nothing,
and I’ve given it all over
to the night.
I can’t sleep,
and so the night goes on,
and morning
is right around the corner.
Another Hundred Yards
Walk… like an old man.
Maybe I’ll see Alicia.
The shadow of my cane
is moving slowly
as the strap dangles.
Green light makes a left turn.
There’s no such thing
as walking too slow.
That white motion light is bright.
I have a lot on my mind,
and it’s hard to process.
It’s all new to me.
Make it new, he said,
each day.
Degas… Manet… Freud… Bacon…
aching…
the green grass…
sigh…
I dread the steps coming up,
the cracked sidewalk,
the five-petaled leaf.
What am I talking about?
I’m trying to say
I’m almost at the corner,
and then I have another hundred yards to go.
The tree is sheltering the sky
at 7:07 p.m.
A walker perched on the porch
against the red bricks.
It’s okay.
It’s all going to be okay.
I’m learning.
I’m still learning at age 64.
It’s my knee and it’s my neck.
He’s walking his dog
as he glances over
to see me struggling.
Like an American flag
unfurled in the wind,
depicted on the video screen,
falling, falling.
Not so much from grace.
I think of you.
How I left it off.
I was perturbed, wasn’t I?
Like I had all the answers
and I didn’t want to listen.
A closed mind anticipates
the learning to come.
Like orange spray paint
on the concrete sidewalk.
It initiates the thought.
The orange light bulb
is obscured by the green-leafed tree,
like filtered light at night.
Before and After
“Good night, good night.
Sure is dark, isn’t it, Patty?”
“Sure is, kiddo.”
“Even though those orange lights
add a nice sheen to the roadway
and the grassy knoll.
You don’t hear that term
much too often
except in the one context.”
“Yeah, you mean the president, right?
Getting shot?”
“Of course.
When else do you hear it?
Almost never.
That was sure a dark day, huh?
Changed everything.”
“Sure was a clear demarcation
before and after.
Although at the time,
who could say?”
“You couldn’t say.
All you could do
is throw up your hands
and say,
I don’t know.
And leave it at that.”
High Noon — Selected Poems.
Mackerel Sky
Altocumulus stratiformis.
Small,
rounded cloudlets.
A mottled appearance,
like most granites.
Slow down.
Alicia
on a park bench,
smoking.
The 156
to New York
via Park Avenue.
Walk slowly
and carry yourself
straight.
Spiraling whorls,
upright stems.
At the corner
of Wilson
and Lemoine,
life hesitates.
Seems to ask
a lingering question.
Cartoonish silhouettes
mark the crosswalk.
One holds
a purse,
one
a briefcase.
Route 67
is not Route 66,
but it may
as well be.
Air still.
Conscience clear.
Jog in place
as another watches.
“I’ll see you later.”
“I gotta go
check something out.”
Soft Eyes
Heat index high.
Not a cloud
in the sky.
Coleus,
magenta
and lime green.
Dramatic
beside
pink wax begonias.
Walk in silence.
Carry
soft eyes.
Smile,
of course.
The Village Green Preservation Society.
No loitering
in front of
or on
these premises.
Like the other day,
when a man
watched me
from his window.
Standing
on the sidewalk
in front
of his house.
Suspicious,
he thought.
I was just writing.
Thinking
out loud.
“What’s the matter?”
I asked.
He had
no answer.
Like a Lampshade
“You’re handsome.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“We went through this already.”
“We agreed you’re handsome.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“You said sometimes.”
“No.”
“Beautiful man.”
“Thank you,
but no.”
“You’re handsome.
Period.”
“I never was,
and I never will be.”
“You were.
You are.
You will be.”
“No.”
“Just let it go.”
“No…
maybe.”
“Obtusely,
you’re handsome.”
“Like a lampshade.”
“You’re handsome.”
“…Yes, I am.”
Things Have Changed — Selected Poems.
The Greek Festival
Cannabis
is an unreliable narrator.
You never know
what you’re gonna get.
So let me walk
clean and sober
to the Greek festival.
Heraclitus,
don’t abandon me now.
No, my son,
let us walk together
and observe
the gentle folk
at the festival.
There’s a short enclosure
along Clinton Avenue.
Many of the cars
parked here,
like me,
a few hundred yards
from the driveway entrance,
the feast out ahead.
Yes, my son,
we’ll cruise along
at a slow pace
that allows
for your limp
to gain traction.
Let’s follow this drive up.
I see the first series
of white tents
and a swing set
guiding children
round and round.
As I navigate
uneven grass
and hillock,
we’re about to enter
the feast’s perimeter.
A little wobbly,
but not so bad.
I’ll make
frequent stops
to observe.
Yes, my son.
Stops to observe.
I feel like
some moussaka.
You know,
the eggplant
with the bechamel sauce.
Yes,
one of my favorites.
Let’s navigate
through the game room area.
Children’s voices.
Balls bouncing.
Rides.
Fun-time circles.
Entering a tent
with seating,
I’m reminded
where I sat before.
Not last year.
Perhaps the year before.
Greek music
in the pavilion.
I may have spotted
the food pavilion.
No alcohol
for me today.
I’ll save
my one drink
for later
in the week.
Never mind that,
my son.
Let us find
our way
to the tent.
I believe
we found it.
Some kind
of lineup system.
I see burgers.
I see gyro.
Siskabob.
Fries.
Pink flowerettes.
“Hi,
is there more food
in another tent
or everything’s here?”
“We have hot food here,”
she says.
“The cooked food
is upstairs.”
“Where’s
the moussaka?”
“Right over there.”
“Oh,
thank you so much.”
So we sidestep
this area
and head south.
That’s where
I ate last time.
You weren’t with me.
A couple years ago.
Leaving one tent
and entering
the Orthodox church building,
orange terracotta brick.
Here’s
a handicap ramp.
I take advantage
of it.
No steps.
I’m not sure
this is the entrance.
Probably not.
A storage area.
A cul-de-sac.
Let us backtrack.
Step over wires
with orange cones
delineating
safe passage.
Like the steersman
you once knew.
Yes,
my friend.
This friend
is becoming
someone you know
better each day.
Three steps down
and now
into the school proper.
Where we go
I do not know.
Let us try
this hallway first.
Perhaps upstairs.
Vintage clothing
for sale.
My sister said
she bought things.
We bypass this.
“Cooked food
is upstairs,”
someone says.
“How do I get there?”
“From here.”
“Oh good.
Thanks, hon.”
“The elevator’s here.”
“Oh yeah,
good idea.
Thank you.”
Then I overhear
another woman.
“I lost my cane.”
I turn.
“You talking
about your cane?”
“Yeah.
Can’t find it.”
“That’s crazy,”
I say.
Then I lift mine.
“You notice
I’m not really
using this.
Mostly dangling it.”
She nods
before I finish.
“Yeah,
for when you get tired
at the end
of the day.”
“Yes,”
I say.
“That’s exactly it.”
“Or stairs.”
“Right.”
“Thank you,
sweetie.”
One door
leads to items
for sale.
One door
leads to food.
Now I’ve got it.
Everything
beautifully displayed.
I put the phone down.
Let us perambulate
the tables
and surroundings.
Rosemary tried
to call me,
but I’m
in the middle
of this.
Dolmades.
Greek salad.
Feta.
Orzo.
Lamb shank.
Moussaka.
Vegetarian moussaka.
Pasticio.
Tyropita.
Spanakopita.
There you have
the menu
for the day,
my friend.
“Could I have
a moussaka,
please?
For here.”-
“And could you
do me a favor?
Could you help me
bring it
to the table?”
“No problem.
I’ll get you
a tray.”
Perfect.
“Anywhere here
is good.”
“Thank you so much,
hon.
I appreciate it.”
Enjoy.
1 and 9 South
George Washington Bridge.
95 North
or South.
80 West
to San Francisco
by way of Chicago.
Low-hanging,
silvery white clouds
over the high school
clock tower.
There’s a Center Avenue detour,
but I don’t go that way.
I take the ramp
off the westbound bridge lanes.
North Bergen.
46 westbound.
1 and 9 South.
A snake-like stretch
near the Fort Lee Road exit
drops toward Leonia,
but I stay
with the center line,
the median,
the yellow stripe
going on
and on.
Warm spring afternoon.
A high-rise
under construction.
A tow truck,
moving slowly,
finally finds
an opening,
ferrying
a broken Toyota
to Apex Auto.
First girlfriend.
Tina.
She was a gymnast.
She let me go
like letting go
of the high bar,
landing.
Perfect.
9.9.
Broad Avenue.
Keep right.
That’s me.
1 and 9 South.
Slowly merge.
Use the indicator.
Cars weaving
left and right,
entering,
exiting.
Still,
I make my way.
June
in bloom.
Silvery clouds
following me south.
She said,
“I don’t know
how serious
I want to be
with you,
yet.”
It caught me
half by surprise.
I finished
my sandwich,
took a sip
of matcha,
and excused myself.
Tomorrow
I’d be leaving town.
Now
I was getting
to the heart of it.
How is space
left
for cars to enter
without blocking
the box?
Caution.
Slow down.
Give us
a break.
That’s all
she was saying.
Not no.
Not never.
Just…
slow down.
Rispoli’s Bakery.
Gone.
For Rent.
The Flower.
Hemp and Honey.
Afternoon
winding down.
Mini Market.
Pizza and Subs.
1 and 9
still waiting.
Now I know
what she likes.
Limits.
Contours.
Lines
to be drawn.
I can’t say
I disagree.
Only,
it wasn’t
my idea.
She was reading
The After Party.
Wanted
to translate it
into Korean.
She painted.
Kept
a journal
of poems.
Mostly retired.
Matcha.
Cream puff.
Friendly enough,
I thought.
1 and 9
goes on
and on.
I’m on it,
going
to see.
This way
I’ll know.
Otherwise,
the world
goes flat.
I feel
my way
through
1 and 9.
