CRISIS

He wants to have his
midlife crisis in peace and quiet.
He has penciled it in his calendar
for at least five years now.
Something always comes up,
something that demands he
be in public, and he simply
will not have a crisis
in that setting, no matter what.
He’s sure he supposed to have one
although as time goes by
he isn’t sure what purpose
it would serve, it isn’t
that his life isn’t half over,
merely that he has what he wants
and the crisis is best used
as an excuse to get something
utterly unnecessary and useless,
and that, for him,
is so five years ago.

WALKING

He walks slowly, with a stoop, born of time or knowledge of a world that has seeped away. He smiles, but you cannot tell if it is at the worm slowly crossing the sidewalk, or the young woman pulling on the leash of her far too large dog. He could walk this route with his eyes closed, has done so to prove a point, but he knows he might hit someone. That happens when his eyes are open, given his stoop. He has become a student of shoes, and in summer, of feet. He can tell a great deal about a person by her feet. He prefers women’s feet. They care and it shows. He’s amazed how calloused and dirty men’s feet often are, as if washing them was always going to be an afterthought. He knows the day is coming when he will no longer be able to walk. When that day comes, he hopes they will just put him in a pine box and not wrap him in a blanket and wheel him around, swabbing the drool from his chin. He was a baby once, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience that time either.

 

SEARCH

forty-three years
I’ve searched
for my voice
a whisper
cracked
hoarse
one moment
fluid
another
then
silent.
I shape
words
which fall
off my tongue
and lie
in puddles
on the floor.
I step
in them
slipping
regaining
perilous toehold.
I scream
strangled thoughts
dreams are
forgotten
the night
laughs, she
touches my forehead
with her lips
I welcome
the silence
of sleep.


First appeared in RE:AL The Journal of Liberal Arts 23:2, 1998

REFLECTIONS

An elk stands at the edge
of a placid mountain lake
and sees only the clouds
of an approaching winter.

A black bear leans over
the mirrored surface of the lake
and sees only the fish
that will soon be his repast.

The young man draped
in saffron robes looks
calmly into the water and sees
a pebble, the spirit of his ancestors.

I look carefully into the water
looking for an answer to a question
always lurking out of reach
and see only my ever thinning hair.


First appeared in Greens Magazine (Can) 29:1 2000

AROUND EVERY CORNER

They hide in corners, and you think
you can see them, but you cannot be certain
for they are vague and could be no more
than wishes, but belief is sufficient.
As you grow older, the number of corners grow
and a universe of but eight corners
is now itself tucked in a corner of memory.
One corner hides the face of the man
who adopted me, watched for two years,
before departing suddenly, and the only item
I have is his diploma rolled up in a tube
where my own accomplishments are rolled.
In another corner the day I met the man
I now call father is so deeply buried
only his present, increasingly absent
aging face is all I can see.
Memories are elusive, appearing
and disappearing without warning
day by day the oldest evanesce
and that corner is filled
by another memory grown vague.

55+ FLORIDA

She said, “you so don’t
fit in there, everyone’s going
on eighty except those
can only see it
in their rear view mirrors.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but I’m
fairly sure I’m on the very
young side of things, and it’s nice
being the kid in the crowd once again.
And anyway, it’s a comforting thought
that when the ambulance
makes its daily appearance
I’m the least likely to be in it.”
“Unless,” she laughs, “the others
Hear you saying things like that,
crochet needles can be lethal you know.”

OCCLUSION

After the stroke
he couldn’t remember
much, was the woman

in white who bathed him
his wife or someone
he slept with once

before he had gotten
married. Monogamy
was a word that he

remembered, though not
its meaning, or why he
had sworn to abide it.

When the aide brought
in the flowers, they smelled
familiar, like the odor

of capon slowly boiling
on the Sabbath stove.
He heard the concerto

small radio tinny, but it
sounded strange, gut
of cat sawed across strings

crying out against
the injustice of it all
and the chair against

the window, was it one
he sat on at the edge
of the stage, bowing

to the audience as
Mozart’s crescendo
still echoed in his ears.


First appeared in the May 2019 Issue of The Broadkill Review