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.
"I can hear you
coughing in the shower
a place I am
no longer welcome
with you. It breaks
my heart."
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.
[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.
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.
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.
