Toadstool

I swore I was doing the right thing, though that's usually where we lose it. 

At dinner a few nights prior my father and my brother had mentioned their new pet frog; something to do with a Boy Scout merit badge. Imagine the irony of achievement through captivity. Their first acquired pet, a painted turtle, had been promptly released since its constant escape attempt was accompanied by the knocking of its shell against the aquarium's glass. Our old man couldn't take it and set the reptile free. If only it were that simple for the rest of us. 

Its ill-fated replacement was what they called a frog, but when I stopped by after work one day I discovered otherwise. At first I thought the ten-gallon tank on the porch was mostly empty; some gravel, a long piece of tree bark, a round takeout tin with dirty water, a rock, and seven dead earthworms fouling it. My curiosity piqued, I lifted the bark and saw a terrified toad compressing its body as tightly as possible. I had to shower, change, and attend a memorial service in time to console family, but this discovery posed a new quest that my conscience couldn't ignore. I lifted the dish of water, brought it to the front yard, dumped its putrid contents, and replaced it with tap water from the bathroom sink. The house was on a well so I wasn't concerned with the chemicals that wash our brains. After returning the improvised pond I gently placed the toad in it to allow it to drink and bathe. I did the same and went to the wake. 

A few days later my father sent a garbled message. His talk-to-text technology is lacking at best and must be decoded by the recipient, but the gist of it accused me of a minor crime. That water I'd dumped was straight from the swamp where the toad had been caught, allegedly containing eggs. While I hadn't seen any, I couldn't prove otherwise and confessed to my accidental wrongdoing. "I had the kid's heart in mind," was my defense. "I didn't want the toad to die." My plea was accepted and a well-meaning emoji was sent; that smiley face with the awkward grin, though septuagenarians don't understand its sarcastic nuance. Relieved of any sentencing, I carried about my day. 

It's been a week and the toad's still alive as far as I know, with one more to go before the project will be complete. An old friend once said that you're supposed to be the good guy in your story, but I don't know that I am this time. I'll concede to the amphibian and hope that it lives another seven days for its freedom. There weren't any eggs that died in the lawn, though. Take that off my growing list of charges.

Tumbleweeds

Most people are sick

and you know it

but don't want to

confess

let alone repent.

I'm here to acknowledge that

for your sake

and mine

and while we're at it

let's include 

the military-industrial complex.

Now's the time.

There are only two days left

until the next full moon.

Waxing Gibbous

whatever that means

to those of us

without the tattoo.

Close enough.

We're the boys

and girls

sans club

who cried "Wolf!"

then went about

our evenings.

We're liars.

"Call me any time."

Then leave our texts on "Read".

We're making the poor argument

that a slow bullet's

more kind than a fast one

when truly

ask Lenny

and his rabbits 

in hell.

I could've gone

for a friend tonight

but will settle for a bottle

that one bought me

instead.

The deep slug of bourbon.

The second cigarette.

The slow lead

is better than none

if it ends this.

Eclipsed

Forsythia for Cindy

with eyes that get slammed shut.

A sugarcoated hobby horse

rusted to irrelevance.

Slow is smooth

and smooth is fast.

A resurrected godsend

backpedaled 'til the flaw.

Conquering the natives

for glory, gold, the Lord.

A hostage on the telephone

who sounds safe with his captor.

Wear and tear

and ginger ale.

A funeral home

in blue jeans.

She and the rabbits

suffer in silence.

A Taurus is their soulmate.

Gospel From a Man, Not My Father

I wish 

I could

say something

to make you feel

better

son.

Damn the Torpedoes

It's comical

in that 2020s way

for a man

who's sought solace

in fiction and history

for the better part

of his life

to suddenly suspect

that this could be 

that necessary part of the tale

seven-eighths through

in which the snow globe's shaken

so hard that it falls

from a weary grip

but the water's retained

since it didn't shatter

this time.

A Note Found, Too Late

"I can hear you

coughing in the shower

a place I am 

no longer welcome

with you. It breaks

my heart."

CV + MA, 1983

It's funny

what you pick up

from your parents.

When I was a kid

I found a few wine corks

with initials and dates

written on them

among my mother's things.

Important consumptions.

Monumental events.

Maybe the dates

of conception and marriage.

I'll never know now

but I follow suit

with my Sharpie

and tact

sneaking the corks

into pockets

once pulled.

Maybe someday

they'll serve as a story.

Maybe one day

they'll be thrown away.

Maybe, eventually

I'll learn what I need:

what's not so funny

that you shouldn't pick up

from your parents.

Currently reading:

"My Name Is Eleanor" by Wes & Barbara Gottlock.

Premonitions

[For Jeff Newman

who saw my mother

pushing me in a stroller

around Rockland Lake

in 1986

and said I should have been

his.]

Three years ago

when I still bought

Ruffino Chianti

since we'd watched 

"The Sopranos" together

the liquor store

undercharged me

for the premium version, 2012.

We saved the bottle 

for a special occasion

collecting dust 

in the meantime

foolishly waiting.

Two nights ago 

while reviewing

my list of blocked phone numbers

I came across the one

who maliciously told me

of your Engagement

and wondered when

the next inevitable news

would come.

Tonight I received it

from an innocent source:

a Union brother

trying to do what was right.

"She's Expecting."

He proceeded to ask

if I'd heard of a band

called Vampire Weekend.

Sucked dry of blood

but not having the heart

to hurt the harmless

I fizzled out in conversation

though he sensed it

and apologized.

"Crafted from the best vineyards...

aged for 36 months...

violet, cherry, and plum aromas...

14.5% alcohol by volume..."

I couldn't get the cork out

fast enough this evening.

Here's to everything

you've always wanted

everything you deserve

and what I woud have gladly given

in time

that we don't have.

Kingdom Come

Pulling up

to my old man's place

the house

I'm still trying

to grow up in

four decades later

I notice rust-red

rotten wood

at the curb

next to the green

plastic trash can.

When I limp out

of my truck

after work

I recognize

the rubbish:

the walls of 

my Radio Flyer

repainted once

for my kid brother

now relegated

to refuse status.

A few years ago

it would have upset me

but now I see the beauty

in the death

of what's run its course.

You can't circle wagons

if there's only one.

Hydrogen & Helium, Ingratiated

Sunbeams 

chopped

by each tree 

along the highway.

Every ray 

hits eyes

like Morse code 

for "torture".

Closing them

doesn't help;

orange warmth

through eyelids.

Love was finding

a mole with your tongue

in the dark

and no one flinching.

Floundering Over Rice

Undesired

creature comforts:

her favorite meal;

not mine--

delivered to

my doorstep

while an old friend

bought me time.

The laces of these boots

have strands of gold 

entwined.

A weekly sweep

will miss some hair

like this gaze

dodges eyes.

Fair Play

Beware of the man

robbed of purpose.

He leaves his pistols

where home was

these days

since he's poised

like a spring

indecipherable

hungry headlights

stabbing into

the night.

How Violently American

Our Maker's

lath and plaster

a ribcage and skin

barely conceal

the stubborn organ

that feigns 

the most precious emotion 

that we 

as a failed experiment

were given.

This commercialized day

to signify its gains

is, for many, a spectator sport

indecipherable to those

who loathe

the smell of their own skin

but we've forgotten

to care for one another

and so we deserve it.

It's wasted surveillance

on palliative care.

You can eat thrice daily

and still starve to death.

Don't find yourself

counting on rain

that ain't coming.

Honey, you're golden

but we can't speak 

in code

for much longer.

Apples to Apples

My father's killed

two deer in his lifetime:

one intentionally

with his bow

on state park land

and one accidentally

with his sport utility vehicle

on the Palisades Interstate Parkway.

I was present for neither

but at ten years old

I followed him into woods

along an apple orchard

in the shadow 

of the Shawangunk Ridge

where he had permission

from a farmer to hunt.

It was so cold

beside that tree

where he waited

for the buck 

that wouldn't come

and I waited 

for the sun to rise

while it was darkest

before dawn.

It's the same now

three decades later:

Love is being 

someone's plan.

Celestial Association

Listen, I don't make

the rules or whatever

but my favorite book

as a toddler was

"Stevie's Tricycle".

No, I couldn't read it

but my mother did

since I was in

the womb or whatever

and so it was my favorite

after I foolishly left

that warm, safe place.

Stevie rode around

his neighborhood

back when a kid could

do that unattended.

Its golden spine 

legitimized the action.

What I remember most

were these peaches

on the trees.

They were this warm orange

color with red rubbed in

for ripe emphasis.

We could talk about this

and we could talk about that

and your therapist would

reference Freud

while mine echoed

from the bottom of this bottle

but at the end of the day

that you're willing to give

here and there

when we're running low

all that matters is that

your cheeks

when I gaze down at you

form the same warm mixtures 

of hues as those peaches

in "Stevie's Tricycle"

and if that ain't enough

then bottom's up.

Sparring Partner Parlor Tricks

My favorite place

to see you's 

on mountaintops

since I know

that's where 

you belong

though I'd suffer

a nosebleed

via horse height

as you would

if I could

thread a tether

through those 

two rings

I gaze at

more than 

you'd like

to admit.

Tag, You're It

You tally the hands

that have touched you

this week:

the deli lady

taking eight quarters

in her leathery palm

for commute coffee;

a coworker

tapping your arm

mid-story, for emphasis;

a misled combat nurse

or two, God bless 'em;

an old friend who tried

to cheat on his wife

after your handshake;

that off-duty masseuse

in fishnets and leather.

None of it adds up

to what you deserve

and

none of it adds up

to what you once did

and

none of it adds up

to what they say

a person needs

to persist

with paying the bills.

"You'll be fine," she said

on her way through the door

but she was only telling herself.

Forgiveness is a nice idea.

Left on Read

Your body's quite the temple

As far as I'm concerned.

All it guarantees, though

Is to hurt and learn.

This Club of Sleepless Nights

Soon will have inductions.

Our members mask the pain

With cheap laughs and production.

Sharing fluids and our time;

A destination we all know

Assessing one another

Like piss-holes in the snow.

The hardest thing to do:

Return the energy you're sent.

Prepare to convalesce

In this beginning of the end.

Curiosity

I found your lost

earring in a room

I never showed you

and while that might

deter most

I've played the dead

cat, as well.

Jupiter's Boulder

You can try

to talk us down

but I'll walk us down

from the gallows.

You can say

that it's been a fight

but the best fish do

until they're caught.

You can laugh

from a distance

but you can't keep it

any more than I can.

You can tell

your dad I said this.

I'll shake his hand.

You'll see.

Smash Cake

A bearded farce

the ringleader

puts his best foot forward

for the motherlode.

You don't even know

her favorite tree.

Can you feel

me nipping at your heels?

How do you change

your signature?

No dog to save

the bone for

with the elephants

in the room.

It's a low-speed chase

so lawyer up.

That hand on my back

at two in the morning's

the only thanks

I'll ever need.