HOLDING HANDS

is awkward now, for the both of them,
out without their son, she complains
about how her joints ache, how his
wedding ring hurts as they hold hands.

They keep on going, thinking about
how they used to always walk like this.
From the corner of his eye, she looks
like that young girl he found in college.

But they’re both older now, changed.
White hairs on his chin far outnumber
the brown, the red, the blonde ones.
They keep walking, into another bookstore.

photo- Flicker http://www.flickr.com/photos/rozzie/274804266/

BEHIND

We threw out what was left
of the Halloween candy today,
the Smarties, a few boxes of Nerds,
Laffy Taffy, a handful of Dum Dums.
Finally we take a Sunday afternoon
to rake up the mounds of leaves.

We’re the last ones on the block
to rake, again. Each neighbor’s lawn,
dark green, clear of the faded mess
from the too many oak trees that fill
the tiny yards on our suburban street.
They have their brown paper sacks
lined up neatly on the curb for pick up.
I am behind again, just starting to deal
with my cursed homeowner duties.

Look forward to Thursday,Thanksgiving,
anticipating the day after even more,
a day off to sit, to read, to write, to rest.
Filling my last paper bag, I prop it up
on the edge of my yard and look down
the street, three houses down they’re
stringing Christmas lights on the bushes
and inflating a Charlie Brown snow globe.

MY WORST FEAR

Afraid of working for thirty years
and finding out at a doctor’s office
that I’ve got some incurable disease.
Pancreatic cancer like my grandmother
or Lou Gehrig’s disease like Cousin Eric.
A stroke, skin cancer, massive heart attack
in my easy chair one Tuesday afternoon
watching CNN or The Weather Channel.

Afraid of not getting to travel the world, never
seeing the Eifel Tower, The Great Wall of China,
Egypt’s pyramids, a soccer game in England.
Afraid I won’t see my son begin his life or
if I don’t live long enough to meet his wife
and kids or afraid I won’t be around
long enough to take them to all the places
I went with him when he was a young boy.

Afraid to know that I won’t be remembered
by too many people as time keeps moving on.
Afraid of not waking up one night, dying from
sleep apnea and my wife would have to deal
with big dead me. I wouldn’t want her to have
to tell my son, Come up here son,say goodbye,
your father is gone, have a moment with him
before I call the rescue squad to take him.

And with all this thinking of myself, my selfish thoughts,
I think about one day having to bury my wife or son,
this is truly my worst fear, a thousand times more.


*Ideas for this were sparked at a NYC writing workshop with Denise Duhamel after she shared with us the poem of the same title, My Worst Fear by Cyn Zarco. I let it sit,pecked at it a bit,then polished it. LL

NAME TAGS

Gary waited on us today
and last week it was Susan.
Another time, it was Jennifer.
Somehow I don’t think these are
the real names of the workers at
All You Can Eat Chinese Buffet.
A large group of young people
who only say, Coke. Diet Coke.
Go ahead please and Keep your fork.
I imagine a large bowl of name tags
in back by the time clocks and each
morning after punching in, they dip
into the bowl to find out who
they’ll be for the day-
Jonathon, Melissa, Tim, or Chris.

BIG JOHN'S PIZZA

Steamed up windows, watering pouring down
in winter time, January, ten degrees outside
it was a time before anyone spoke of wind chills.
It looked like a third grade science class experiment.
They say it’s still there on Commerce Street,
alongside long gone businesses, closed up
in the little town that never could and never will.

Inside the pizza guys in plain white
Fruit of the Loom t-shirts with v-neck collars,
golden crucifixes shone through chest hair.
John and his partner,Red,curly hair,sideburns,
thick moustaches, men of the Seventies.

Bouncing around behind the counter
without knocking into one another, working
wood paddles, cardboard boxes, the oven door,
mounds of dough, a slicing wheel, the phone.
Cooler full of Pepsi bottles, Orange Crush, 7-Up
alongside a scattering of booths that we never
sat at, always took it home in two boxes with
the man on the lid who would’ve looked like
the owners if they wore Chef Boyardee hats.

Pepperoni placed on after it came out of the oven,
sometimes Mom ordered half a pie with mushrooms.
And when I left my hometown, I found it strange that
most pizzas are round; disappointed I ate the flimsy wedge
slice and thought-Sure could go for a slice of Big John’s.
I wonder if Red, with his serious face, is still serving up
rectangular pies with what some say, must be extra cheese.

THIS IS A TEST

This is only a test.
For the next sixty seconds,
No, for the next sixty years,
if you’re lucky, maybe more-
life will be a test. Created by you,
altered by the ones around you,
not by the Emergency Broadcast System.

This is a test.
Your father will visit on Saturdays with his lawyer.
Your mother will scare you and coach you to scream.
He will move away. You won’t see him for eighteen years.

This is a test,
Your mother remarries, changes your name, sells you out.
Your new father will call you worthless, always insisting
that you wipe that look off your face, shape up or ship out,
and “If you’re not doing nothing, don’t do it here”.

This is a test,
Your grandfather looks after you, guiding you with
the message of how important it is to get an education.
He passes away before the acceptance letter comes in the mail.

This is a test,
Debts start piling up and tuition can’t be met.
Campbell’s tomato soup, potato chip sandwiches,
dead end jobs, sell your gold to pay July’s electric bill.

This is only a test-
This system has been developed in order to keep you informed…
to prepare you, to make you strong, wise, driven to succeed,
to prove yourself.
This has been a test.

In the event of an actual emergency like-
failing a course needed for graduation,
your wife getting tired of waiting for “someday”,
your two month old son contracting meningitis,
the phone ringing as the old ones begin to pass away,
your wife stricken with breast cancer at 33,
carrying your 60 year old father’s coffin.

To return to our regularly
scheduled programming you have to realize
that This is only a test.

In the event of an actual emergency,
there will be no instructions.
You’ll have to figure it out
for yourself or you’ll have to turn to-
neighbors, a friend, your spouse,
co-workers, your boss, your children,
your family, maybe even God.

This is only a test.
If you live long enough,survive it all,
you’ll be able to experience moments
of love, joy, beauty, hope, solitude.
When you get them, take ‘em as they come.
Then you’ll know what they mean by-
This was only a test and This concludes the test
of the Emergency Broadcast System.

*Written for a workshop with poet Denise Duhamel ("Ka-Ching") throught Louder Arts in NYC. Ms.Duhamel worked with us for three hours and showed a passion for both poetry and teaching. I look forward to her next book of poetry. Thanks again to her for a great afternoon in Manhattan.

MOST VALUABLE PERSON

for my son

Not sure if they served plates of baked ziti or
spaghetti at the middle school sports banquet.
I’m sure you didn’t have a salad or green beans.

When your Mom and I entered the cafeteria
in time for the awards, we found a spot at a table
in the back as Science, Social Studies, Gym teachers
who double as the coaches took turns, saying a few
words about players, game recaps, stories of practice.

Medals and certificates, given for participation.
Special awards given to individuals as well.
But you didn’t get an award for fastest runner
on the Cross Country team, nor for scoring the
most goals. Tonight, your name wasn’t called
for the MVP awards for any of the teams.

Your coach said a few words about each player
as they came up to the little stage and just before
it was time for you to be called up, the coach
stopped to tell everyone about the next player,
a respectful student, a solid player, good at defense,
and quite mature for his age. He told the crowd how
he felt about a boy who always shook his hand at
the end of each practice, after each and every game.

With this anecdote, the coach awarded you
and us, your parents the greatest honor of all-
One not made of bronze, or silver,
or printed on a fancy certificate.

NO MORE HALLOWEEN

pull down the shades, turn off the lights,
go to the basement and put the TV on low.
Doorbell’s busted, so they’ll stand and ring
it a few times, but it won’t make a sound.
Years ago he slammed the door, vowing
to never hand out candy again, rotten kids,
driven in from other places, no costumes,
pillow cases opened wide, demanding rudely,
“Gimme candy. Gimme some for my cousin.”

It was different back then. My dad says this
about so many things, wondering why it’s
all changed in the last forty years or so.
He describes faraway places, long gone times.
Again he’ll tell me the story about a lady with
bright orange hair, like Lucille Ball, how she
always wore a dress, an apron, a pearl necklace.
How she’d come out, same time every day
to sweep the sidewalk in front of her pink house.

Jenny always smiled, always paused to look up
between swishes of a yellow handled broom.
Always waved to the kids, but spoke to no one.
Her name was Jenny, Jenny Notaro. I think.
Dad seems to be forgetting some of the story.
Other than that, we knew she was divorced,
no kids, no one seemed to know the details.
But her ex-husband, Jimmy showed up
each afternoon to visit, have a dinner some said,
others chuckled, insinuating they still got along.

Dad says, Jenny became a different neighbor
on Halloween. She didn’t crack the door open
to throw candy into your bag or plastic pumpkin.
Instead she’d invite everyone into her home through
the spotless living room, into her showplace kitchen.
Laughing, Jimmy plopped half gallon tubs of
rainbow sherbet into huge glass punch bowls
filled with Hawaiian Punch and Canada Dry Ginger Ale.

Blood red, iridescent candy apples, lined up on the
counter glowing next to gooey caramel-coated ones
rolled in chopped peanuts. Pies and cookies baking in
the oven, filled the air with cinnamon, vanilla, molasses.
For a few moments on that last day of October, long ago,
the happy couple was surrounded by the neighborhood kids,
who they never really knew, but had all to themselves.
My father’s story always ended with, “Can’t imagine that today.”

SHARING AGAIN, A PREVIOUS POST

THE HISTORY OF MY GRANDMOTHER’S COOKING

Grilled cheese with tomato soup,
Fritos on the side.

Ham Salad from the meat grinder,
passed down from generations.

Meatloaf with stewed tomatoes,
brown on the ends.

Fried flounder with potatoes au gratin,
crispy layer on top.

Baked Virginia ham with green beans,
snapped earlier outback.

Butter, bacon, glistening on Pole Limas,
found at a roadside stand.

Shepherd’s pie with crusty potatoes,
baked longingly in a Pyrex dish.

Sweet potatoes with mini marshmallows,
always on the holiday tables.

Slabs of juicy, crimson garden tomatoes,
a blob of mayonnaise on top.

Pork roast in sweet sauerkraut,
turned dark with the juices.

London Broil with peppers and onions,
soaked in Italian dressing all day.

Chocolate pudding with a skin coating,
made in the early afternoon.

Pineapple upside down cake,
dripping with sweetness.

Bright yellow ears of Jersey corn,
boiled in the great aluminum pot.

Creamed chipped beef on toast,
flowed carefully over the bread.

Pancakes and sausage links for dinner
never seen as the wrong time.

Corn fritters in powdered sugar,
that seemed a strange idea for food.

Applesauce cake loaded with raisins
made especially for me.

Round chocolate peanut butter candies
in little tins for Christmas.

Chex party mixes with Worcestershire
the treat for New Year’s Eve.

Tender little plump blueberries
sitting in milk with gritty sugar.

Hunks of watermelon shaken with salt,
to bring out the flavor.

Cream cheese and olive sandwiches,
always on white bread.

Browned scrapple slabs cooked just right,
couldn’t be served without ketchup.

Fried egg sandwiches with pepper,
the old standby lunch.

Pearl onions swimming in cream sauce,
that’s Thanksgiving for me.

Country style ribs with baked beans
stewing all day.

Chicken and dumplings, not square
the size of baseballs.

Hamburgs in the frying pan,
how they were always cooked.

Tomatoes topped with breadcrumbs
buttered, then broiled.

Vegetable soup with bits of ground beef
that seemed to float to the top.

(Poem was previously published in the chapbook, A Strange Kind for Food,Poetry)

PICTURE FRAMES

When I’m in my reading and sleeping chair,
the one where I drink my first cup of coffee,
I look over at the many pictures standing
on the china cabinet or dining room hutch,
even though it’s placed in our living room.

There’s a baby picture of me in black and white.
One of my wife too, as if we grew up together.
It could have been possible since we’re born
just 25 days apart in the Summer of Love, 1967.
On the bottom shelf I notice how many photos
there are now of our little family, with our son.

As the sun rises slowly in September, I think about
how he is a little bit bigger inside each of the frames.
Soon there will be a picture on this shelf with him
as tall as me, maybe taller, surely towering above
his mother in the pose he always calls a family hug.

And when I sit here a few years from now
in this same chair, drinking from the same mug,
I will be overwhelmed with joy for the life we have,
saddened to know that we won’t see our boy today,
it will be time for the young man to go away.