WEATHER SMALL TALK

Welcome to Jersey

if you don’t like the weather-

don’t worry, it changes.

Last year we were off

a week for the hurricane

this year it was snow.

Winter is done now,

ice dams haunted us

no need for more salt.

He never liked spring,

because it doesn't know

what it wants to be.

Four seasons this week

eighty degrees, a snow storm

cool, windy, and rainy.

In spring and fall

you save cash on utilities

no AC or heat.

Ready for summer?

window units will run hard

if it hits ninety.

Hey, it’s better than

dealing with single digits,

please remember that.

MINIMUM WAGE

I didn't find it in the help wanted pages,

a friend who’d worked there gave me a tip.

Call them up, they need workers for a crew,

hired on, ready to work, we started in June.

Painting tables and poles in the hot sun,

3.35 an hour, I remember the first check.

At 18, I was strong, never wanted to quit,

saving for college, tuition was due soon.

We loaded trucks with tents, chairs and stages

hit the road with the men on my very first run.

Excited to be in Delaware, Philadelphia, A.C.

long hours, time and a half made it opportune.

The education it gave me was one for the ages,

don’t stop, you’re finished when the work is done.

UNANSWERED TEXTS

    









-For Cassy, my wife

Did you miss me?

Are you on your way?

What do you want?

How about Thai food?

It’s Tuesday, they’re closed.

You don’t want pizza.

Wish you’d answer me.

Then I’d know what to bring.

One day I may be texting…

as I take my last breath.

Even then, you wouldn't answer.

Then you’d feel guilty forever.

Hope you’re on your way.

I’ll figure out the meal.

I’ll decide. Imagine that!

See you when I see you.

Answer when you get this.

But not if you’re driving down the road.

BOONDOCKERS

On Saturday morning I jumped out of bed,

put on my husky Toughskins, tube socks,

a Flyers ski cap and a red plaid flannel shirt.

I laced up my boondockers and headed off

to the woods of my youth in South Jersey.

I heard men laughing, the chainsaws buzzing,

logs clunking into the bed of an old Ford pickup.

I found my Grandfather with his teacher friends

on the edge of a soy bean field, near the pond

I’d fallen into more than thirty some years ago.

I ran to the forest, stopped to exchange stares

with a whitetail deer, found the brook where

the scared muskrats scurried and an otter swam.

I climbed trees, crossed streams, chucked rocks,

took cover behind maples, charged a hill with sticks,

breathed in cold fresh air and it made me invincible.

HISTORY OF LACROSSE

At least once a summer, walking along the beach,

I’d stop to watch my grandfather interrupt students

from Maryland playing with fancy new lacrosse sticks.

He’d ask to take a turn and they always obliged and

smiled as he cradled the ball in the pocket before

whipping it to the other young man. “Oh boy”, he’d say,

then pause, examine the netting and grip before nodding

and thanking them. Off we’d go down the boardwalk

past Ocean Deck, Taylor Pork Roll, and all the little shops.

 He’d tell me stories about his days as a defenseman

playing with the Bear Mountain Cubs, for Springfield in ’32,

his knee injury and officiating for the plebes at West Point.

He’d laugh at young people who thought it was a new sport.

He’d talk about the tribes in New York state, the tradition

and most of all his vivid memories of his old teammates.

My grandfather, D.Bewick- back row, third from the left.

RED WINE AND CACHO

Under sprawling branches of their sycamore with its

peeling bark, a dozen birdhouses hung like ornaments,

but served a purpose, shelters for those little tiny finches.

We drank the red wine, rolled the dice, spoke of the future,

planned to travel to places that made him the strongest.

Looking back on that day, I’d have to say it was just right.

The right amount of sunshine, laughter, warm breezes, mixed

with the cup’s rattle and slam on the table with its woven cloth

of green, red and blue threads. A second bottle was opened from

“the cellars of the devil”, and with charango music on a boom box,

he stopped to say once more-These Chileans seem to have the idea,

but I still can’t forgive them for taking away our pathway to the sea.

CIGARETTES FOR BREAKFAST

Temperatures in the teens this morning.

The scent of smoke travels quicker in cold

winter air, there must be a reason for this?

A fifth grade science fact long forgotten.

No one smokes inside their homes anymore.

Peek through the blinds, on my way down

and I see him banging a pack of Marlboros

on the heel of his hand, a custom of many.

Younger ones smack longer, twice as hard

before removing the cellophane wrapper.

Next door, the lady with all the dogs yells

because they’re barking and growling again.

I hear her coughing and know that she must

be fumbling in the pockets of her bathrobe

for the lighter that will start her busy day.

From my kitchen window, I see a big man

in his pajamas, winter coat, and a wool cap.

He puffs away on his Newport, shuffling from

side to side, attempting to keep himself warm.

Days like this must make them think of quitting.

LIFE WAS A BEACH

It was the days before SPF 30 and worries about cancer.

Summers meant swimming, wave riding, sand castles.

Catching blue claws by the pilings with two paper cups.

Handball with a pinky ball, Frisbee artistry with a Whamo,

watching old guys play quoits, Canadians playing bocce,

college kids from Maryland with their lacrosse sticks,

or Natives practiced pitching shells into holes in the sand.

Some wore cut off jeans with thick leather belts, others

insisted on wearing Birdwell’s or Ocean Pacific trunks.

Gorgar pinball, Galaga, and air hockey in Frank’s Playland.

Pennsylvania Dutch root beer, crinkle cut fries in little red

checked paper boats with flat wooden two prong forks,

fifty cent hot dogs, frozen Cokes from Clark’s, then on to

miniature golf at the foot of Jackson Street with windmills,

statues of seals, keeping score with stubby green pencils.

Hole in one on the last hole got you another game free.

Next door was Sid’s Place, later it was called Carney’s,where

music blasted, people drank and laughed loudly all day long.

No need for shoes or flip flops, we walked bare foot and used

painted white lines to avoid the burn of Beach Drive’s asphalt.

We’d lie on the jetty’s hot black rocks to dry off and daydream

out loud, wondering how we could keep this up for the rest of

our lives. But we knew it’d end, because summers always do.

UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

A new sign at the Sunoco is lighting up a message,

splitting it in an odd way, “Wel-come, we now have tires!”

Orange and yellow marigolds in planters by the pumps,

still hanging in there, it’s been a warm October so far.

I am the only car at the station, no attendant in sight.

Times like these are when the people of Jersey wish

they’d be able to fill up on their own, pay at the pump.

Most would hate to get out and deal with cold, the rain.

A man who must be the new owner comes out from the

empty bay doors in a plaid flannel jacket, Red Wing boots,

gray Dickies work pants, looks like he ordered the costume

of “gas station worker” from a Route 18 Halloween store.

Smiling, he’s polite as he takes my debit card, my keys for

the gas cap. It’s drizzling now, but he grabs a squeegee.

He washes the front and side windows. I wonder what’s

taking so long and when I look in the rearview mirror I see

he’s got an iphone, trying to take a picture of himself.

The pump handle clicks, he removes it, puts the cap on,

hands me the card, the keys, the receipt. Then he asks in

a soft voice- “Please sir, if you would take just one picture”.

He positions himself at an angle in the parking lot, chest out.

Behind him a red, white, and blue Grand Opening banner flaps

in the breeze as I push the touch screen, I capture an image

in my mind, and one for him to send half way around the world.

WEATHER CHANNEL DELUGE

“We’ve been through worse, I’m sure,” I said

remembering the days before computer models,

24 hours of coverage and thinking of how no one

would believe "the weather" having its own channel.

Twitter, Facebook, handheld baby computers, and

cell phones all keep us up to date, well informed.

All day we watched green, yellow, red splotches swirl

counterclockwise on a 52 inch screen and listened to

predictions more accurate than airport arrival times.

Years ago experts didn’t have to tell us what to buy.

We understood the dangers of a storm at the shore.

We knew what to do when the lights went out.

We’d light candles and sit listening to the downpours

knowing we’d be alright, it was just water and wind.

We’d hear the stories of past destructive hurricanes.

We’d head inland if we expected it to be real bad to

a friend’s house or to a cousin’s home in the country.

No mandatory evacuations- just plain common sense.

In the morning, like now, we’d get up to the sunshine,

mumble of prayer, comment about the cool breezes,

frown at kids wading in dirty water or the ones paddling

rowboats in the street without worrying about broken glass,

boards, power lines. It reminds me how my grandmother

always used to say,“ I bet old Frog Hollow is flooded”.

IN THE SCHEME OF THINGS

His little cave of an office was made darker

by oak paneling from the Seventies, flickering

fluorescent lights framed in water damaged

ceiling panels and battleship gray carpeting.

Papers, catalogues, manuals sat on top of

the refrigerator, shelves, cabinets, and in piles

on hit beat up old brown desk. A tired man,

he sighs deeply when he looks around his place.

And people wonder why I don’t take vacations,

is what he says as I stare at a dusty stuffed marlin.

When I tell him about how my father passed away

just a few years ago, he becomes silent and must’ve

wondered if it really mattered if his body shop was

open next week or if he was in the Florida Keys.

THE STROLLER

Those first few summers meant not so many

days at the beach for us, we just started out.

Sundays meant long walks with a baby stroller

on the streets of a small city, always in the 90’s,

always high humidity, always a chance of rain.

Up the street we’d go with a bottle and a diaper.

On the corner was the Eighth Day Lounge with

a pinstriped Yankees car parked by the back door.

Further down, Daisy’s Carniceria with it’s strange

smell of dead animal, we’d buy cans of Inca Kola,

loaves of Manteca bread, or bags of plantain chips.

Down the hill, into the tunnel with the train tracks

above us, the walls dripped and the sidewalk was

painted with pigeon poop, littered with broken glass.

I pushed you up long streets lined with multi-family

homes ,once owned by the richest of folks in Jersey.

Shut down stores, closed restaurants, and factories

now gave way to the Prima Vera bakery where rolls

called conchas piled high on glass display counters.

Sometimes I’d stop and get a Cuban sandwich or a

cup of espresso, but mostly we headed to the place

called Five Corners with a bagel and apple juice boxes.

We’d park on a bench by a sign that said how it was the

capital where colonists and settlers came to market with

their goods here, before it was called the United States.

We’d stop to listen to seagulls screech by the Armory and

look out at sailboats moored in the gray waters of the bay.

I’d speak to the baby, he’d listen, not knowing how to talk,

but he knew how to laugh and he knew how to smile when

I told him how someday; maybe we’d have a boat like those.

SAFE CORNER

How did I get here? and

I went to college for this?
is what came to mind today
as we crouched in the corner,
lights out, windows closed,
shades drawn, sign on floor, door locked.
This is a drill required by the State,
because of what happened in other places.
You saw the news, Columbine, Virginia Tech.

We’ll get creative in coming months,
making code words, what if plans for
rabid dogs, a gas leak, a wandering black bear,
a disgruntled employee, an irate parent-
practicing for the worst of all case scenarios,
the active shooter.

It was much easier when I was growing up,
all we worried about was nuclear annihilation.
Not much you could do about that.
We joked about evacuations, the absurdity of
crouching under a desk and covering your head.

My kids don’t say they’re nervous or scared.
But they ask me-
“What would happen if it were real?
What would happen if some
crazy guy with a gun came into
our room and tried to get us all?”

Well, I suppose I’d beat him senseless with a little green chair.
And because we can laugh together, we know we’ll be all right.

(Photo taken from-
http://www.retroland.com)

SAFE FOLLOWING DISTANCE

is important when driving on any road,
like when the NJ Turnpike goes down to
three lanes- semis, cars, and buses flow
together at 65 miles per hour all at once.

In Driver’s Ed, they said something about
counting telephone poles to find out how
many feet you need to stop the car and
how braking on rain slicked roads was worse.

And when you don’t see the bumper or plates
of the guy behind you, then he’s way too close.
Mr. Wuzzardo wasn’t their instructor but surely
the lessons should be the same and kept simple.

Aggressive drivers cut in front of him, weaving,
taking away his optimum following distance.
Is it any wonder why people get killed here is
what he tells his wife, who insists he stops cursing.

He imagines having laser blasters on the hood
like Star Wars or a machine gun mounted on the back
like Jeeps from the old show, Rat Patrol or like the
biplanes they saw in the Air and Space Museum.

His son thinks lasers would cause too much of
an explosion, a gun would spray bullets all over,
possibly hitting innocent people who are safe drivers.
They agree it should be a disintegration ray, one that
would attack the atoms of an SUV and driver making them
disappear into thin air, no mess, no fire, no guilty feeling.

SOME PEOPLE

are eating lasagna today or black eyed peas,
roast pork with kraut and mashed potatoes.
Others eat last night’s party leftovers while
watching the Rose Bowl parade or Mummers.
Little snack trays, TV tables we used to call them
are erected in living rooms, dens across America.
A day devoted to resting, eating, and watching
College football, a Honeymooners marathon, or
movies still in plastic wrap in a stack under the tree.
Soon they’ll think of Monday, going back to work
or school and once again he’ll laugh as he says-
“You know, somebody has to pay for all this stuff.”

ABDUCTION SCENARIO

They imagined a break in, an abduction,
figured a young woman had been snatched
while loading her groceries and thrown into
an old pervert’s panel van to be a sex slave.
They’d called the police and waited for him.
Two Shop-Rite grocery store workers, serving as
crime stoppers, neighborhood watch, good citizens.
Looks of disappointment feel on their faces as
I walked to my Jeep with its passenger door open.
They commented on the fact that I was a guy.
I told them how I loaded up my groceries but
must’ve forgotten to close a door when I ran into
the Pet Store. Last week I’d done the same thing
at work, but without so much uproar or drama.
They explained how they’re prepared for this,
what they thought happened, how they got cameras,
how I couldn’t leave, I’d have to prove it was my car.
When the cop rolled up, he didn’t want to see papers,
he knew it was just a case of an absent minded guy
who didn’t close a car door and a couple of grocery store
workers who'd watched too much Law and Order or CSI
hoping to be part of something big this Saturday morning.

FULL OF HOLES

He told us all he was a truck driver and a damn good one,
but he’d often come back off the road with tickets and dents.

He liked to tell the story of how he was a hero at his old job,
(even made the news) but was laid off the following week.

He’d ask to take certain guys with him to be helpers for the day,
then say “he was as worthless as a bucket with a hole in it”.

He was angry about the racism he faced growing up in Carolina,
but always made fun of his Haitian and Ecuadorian coworkers.

He talked about how he had to take care of his sick wife,
but he’d go out on Friday nights with his young girlfriend.

He’d say he couldn’t stand working with dope heads and druggies,
but he’d hurry his runs to get them on time to the methadone clinic.

He always said he couldn’t work for someone he didn’t have no respect for,
yet when his boss let himself be bullied, he brought his 38 to protect him.

He’d complain about the high cost of pills and prescriptions,
then buy forty to fifty dollars worth of lottery tickets each day.

He’d say he’s never late and if he was, then he wasn’t coming in,
but on most days he always had a reason why he needed to leave early.

TELL ME WHY

That old guy stands near this busy highway
in his layers of shabby unmatched clothes.
Always on the small little sidewalk staring
at televisions hanging high above the bar
in this happening place with a trendy name.
It’s a bar where cool people go after work to
take advantage of Happy Hour Drink Specials.
Think there’s something wrong with him?
We see him here many afternoons in the rain,
the blazing hot sun, for almost a year now.
Sometimes he’s scratching his unruly beard,
or rubbing his jacked up hair with his ashy hands
while watching a football or basketball game.
After hearing me wonder, my son says so sincerely-
“Tell me why they just don’t ask him to come in.”

NO ONE WANTS TO BUY MY HOUSE

or "sometimes I feel like a dog chasing its tail"

In February, a sign went up on the lawn,
papers signed, the process put in motion.
The little house was kept clean at all times.
Realtors brought young couples to walk
through in search of a starter home,
something modest, something to fix up.

Business cards piled up on the table,
weeks and months passed without
anyone wanting, inquiring, or offering.
The price was lowered again, and again.
All hope seemed lost, but an offer came.

Meanwhile, it was hitting the fan in DC.
The President read from his magic teleprompter
throwing around clichés about Wall Street
to Main Street, and talking about at the end
of the day and sitting at the kitchen table.

This was the summer when reality struck.
The American Dream became The American Myth.
Record foreclosures, savings and loans failed,
the prices fell, values went down, taxes went up,
the mortgage remained the same, and all
the people came to terms with staying put.

No approval for the buyers, no sale for the sellers,
and no sale for the next guy couldn’t sell his house
to us and he couldn’t buy the house he wanted
to purchase and that guy couldn’t move either.

SECURITY DEPOSIT SUMMER

I don’t remember how my wife and I
found our second apartment. The first,
just a studio, was too small, too fast.
Noisy neighbors, no place to park,
a shower that abruptly turned cold.

Maybe we found it in the Star Ledger,
it was valuable then, everybody read it,
everybody bought it, everybody needed it.
A colorful brochure, a floor plan layout of
a one bedroom, ground floor apartment.

Close to the Parkway, Turnpike, Route 1.
It would make it easier to get to work
is what I told Marty, as I approached him
for a loan for the hefty security deposit.
He was my boss, but a different kind of boss.

It always felt like talking to an uncle, a brother,
a friend. After a year he looked after me and
cared for me, treated me like I was important
to business, included me in the many plans for
the company he started with his cousin, Alan.

Don’t pay me back; I want you to work it off
on Saturdays through the summer months.
A handshake, a pile of hundreds stacked neatly
in a blue and white United Jersey Bank envelope
and one of the company’s box trucks got us moved.

Weeks passed, we worked side by side in the heat.
Unloading trucks, loading trucks, preparing orders.
Each afternoon around three, an orange soda break.
In September, we agreed- the debt was done, settled,
paid back the old fashioned way, with time and sweat.