FINDING MYSELF

Sometimes I go days without looking in the mirror.

I get a good look when I decide it’s time to shave.

In front of the sink, shake the can of Edge, lather up-

I wonder when the wrinkles start, been lucky so far.

My left eye, no- right eye is bloodshot again, stress?

Notice more white hairs than dark, there’s a blemish.

A few spots here and there, never had them before.

My wife insists I should go and get them checked out.

I look tired after a full night of sleep and why does hair

grow faster in my nose, ears, on the back of my neck?

Somewhere between the last razor stroke and splashing

on the cold water, I remember the friend from college

who always joked about having a Talking Heads moment

while shaving. All of a sudden you stop, stare at the mirror

and say “You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?”

I AM THE NEIGHBORHOOD

I am chain link fences, above ground pools, metal sheds from Sears.

I’m the place where homes don’t have garages or wide driveways

and where cars cut through to avoid the traffic out on Route 18.

You’ll see for sale signs on many lawns for well over a year.

It’s a buyer’s market, but no one want to buy these. They came here

decades ago from Newark and Jersey City, now they want to leave.

I am the neighborhood that used to be called Circle Manor.

I’m where the magnolias grow and drop their blossoms too soon.

I’m where squirrels build nests in mighty oaks and gorge on acorns.

I’m a place where cats climb into yards and make themselves at home.

I’m where Statues of the Virgin Mary sit alongside Slomin’s Sheilds,

and where you find Smiley’s Laundromat next to the Halal Meat Shop.

In the cold winter air, smells from Hong Kong Express travel quickly.

At night the neighbors drag their green robo-trash cans to the street.

and sometimes you hear a train whistles up by Bordentown Avenue.

I am the neighborhood that used to be called Circle Manor.

I am the old forgotten neighborhood in this suburban town.

Others are having curbs and sidewalks replaced, I never had them.

In the center of it all is Jersey Pride, a place where middle aged men

line up nightly with cash and a quarter to begin scratching off cards

labeled Double Down, Big Money, Diamond Spectacular, Win for Life.

Either you stay here a few years or you’ll never leave, is what they say.

I am the neighborhood that used to be called Circle Manor.

SUFFERING

Don’t tell me

how you’re suffering,

we’re lucky.

Electric

is off, but we have water,

food, and gas to cook.

We’ve got books,

candles, flashlights, games.

Others lost

every piece

of clothes, furniture, photos,

cars,entire homes.

After a week,

our lights came back on.

Others died,

don’t complain

about your iphone’s charge

or gas ration lines.

THE TROUBLE WITH TIME

Time often makes me skip 1 of the day's 3 meals

and reminds me to take only 10 minute showers.

It put 19 spots on my hands, makes me squint a lot,

and filled my head with a 100,000 wiry white hairs.

It compels me to hurry out the door by at least 8,

insists I pay the mortgage by the first of the month.

It sends me off to bed by 11 in order to be sure and

get at least 6 hours of sleep for the next work day.

It forces me to teach 43 minute lessons in school.

It tells me to stop reading on page 156 for dinner.

It demands I quit writing to answer the telephone.

It makes me turn off a game in the seventh inning.

It gets me thinking about my 2 week vacation and

once I get there, it sends me back home. It has me

contemplate next year’s trip and what it will be like

in 15 years when I retire and I’ll travel so much more.

It nudges me along every five minutes in museums and

has me checking my watch while hiking on nature trails.

It tells me, have one for the road and turn out the lights.

It keeps me from staring too long out my back window

at blue jays, cardinals and crows. It won’t permit me to

grow an herb garden, a lilac hedge, 6 to 8 tomato plants,

or a row of 5 or 6 dogwood, cherry and magnolia trees.

It forces me to run around 4 weeks before the holiday,

then suddenly it’s over. Only 364 shopping days left!

It quickly aged our cat and dog, now all they do is sleep.

It takes me back to a specific candy store or pizza place

from my youth and has me craving cherry snow cones.

It stole my Gunsmoke lunchbox, baseball cards and

Fantastic Four comic books. It sold my Stingray bike

at a yard sale and it makes me cry while driving when

certain old songs from the 60’s or 70’s come on the radio.

Time made me say goodbye to friends and coworkers.

It took my grandparents too soon and my Dad at age 60.

In 3 years, it’ll send my only son away and off to college.

Then I’ll wait the 16 weeks until his first semester ends.

One day, time will run out for me and in 2 days I’ll have

a birthday, I’ll be 16,437 days old! But who’s counting? 

APOLOGY TO A HOUSE

I meant to give you a new roof,

have the tree branches trimmed,

and add on a big deck in the back.

I wanted some stylish front doors,

insulated windows, brighter lighting,

central air, a new hot water heater,

hardwood floors in the living room,

another toilet, a better shower stall,

and ceramic tiles for the side room.

I planned to paint the foundation,

pave the driveway, fix the doorbell,

power wash the siding and shutters,

and put up a white stockade fence.

I talked about more counter space,

bigger cabinets and a dishwasher in

the kitchen we rarely use for cooking.

I dreamed about a finished basement

with a party room and flat screen tv.

I thought I’d plant a dogwood tree,

a row of forsythia, and a lilac hedge.

Here we are, it’s twelve years later,

I have to say I’m sorry for the little

I’ve done for you, to help you improve,

to make you stronger and better too.

Someday I promise to make it up to you.

CONSUMED BY WORK

It was the summer of working night and day,

eighty hour weeks, for banking paychecks to

pay tuition, being on call, always ready to go.

It was the summer of Genesis, Van Halen and

Whitesnake’s Here I Go Again, TDK blank tapes,

high top sneakers, hair gel, my first CD player.

It was the summer of learning to be a supervisor

of a crew, being responsible, firing of men for

lateness, leaning on shovels, and reckless driving.

It was the summer of 7-11 hot dogs, quarts of milk,

softball sized peaches, Lowenbrau nips, and Fridays

meant cheeseburger subs from Gallee’s Market.

It was the summer of not going to baseball games,

not going to the boardwalk, swimming in the ocean,

and for not spending time with high school friends.

It was the last summer of living in my hometown,

driving my first car, cutting someone else’s lawn,

dealing with other people’s anger, and being alone.

WHAT THEIR FATHERS SAID ABOUT LOVE

Don’t rush into anything.

Don’t worry about being alone.

Don’t get locked in for the long haul.

Don’t talk yourself into being in love.

Don’t give her too many gifts, at first.

Don’t look back if you already walked out.

Don’t worry about breaking up or her leaving.

Don’t make her lie to her parents to be with you.

Don’t forget- if you can’t be good, then be careful.

Don’t stay with her if she always talks about money.

Don’t worry about her being a good cook, that’s very overrated.

Don’t forgive her if she cheats on you. Once a cheater, always a cheater.

Don’t waste your time with her if she is not into school, books, or education.

Don’t say you’ll never date girls with a certain hair color, race, religion, or size.

Don’t watch porn, it’s just like all movies. What you see rarely happens in real life.

Don’t yell at her, belittle her, or lay a hand on her no matter how angry she makes you.

Don’t worry about girls in high school. Get to college and then you can worry about women.

Don’t ask her out if you always hear her badmouthing her parents and other family members.

Don’t stay with her if she is overly critical about your friends, family, and all that is important to you.

Don’t think that you may be marrying her one day. More than likely, (99% sure)- she won’t be your wife.

Don’t tell your friends or buddies what you did with her, what you talked about with her or how you feel about her.

Don’t stay with her if she always tells you what to wear, how to cut your hair, or makes comments about your weight.

Don’t expect to find one that looks like a supermodel. Sometimes the sweetest fruit doesn’t come from a perfect tree.

Don’t stay with her if she asks you to quit something you like and don’t start doing up something you don’t like in order to make her happy.

Don’t get to friendly with a girl, call her your best friend, and share too many secrets with her. She’ll never see you as a possible lover, partner, or mate.

Don’t let her know all your insecurities, hang-ups or issues. She’ll use them against you later. Besides, if she’s around you long enough she’ll figure them out anyway.

Don’t ask her out if she posts cell phone and mirror photos on Facebook of herself puckering her lips, sticking her butt and chest out and pretending to make a “gang sign” with two fingers.

Don’t ask me what you should do, ask your mother about that. I’m not really sure.

Don’t talk yourself into being in love. Wait, I think I said that.

IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

School ends, the car is packed, we’re always ready

for summer and never worried about falling asleep

at the wheel, breaking down, big rigs, or weather.

But tonight there’s a big storm, making it hard to

gain the miles, to make good time, to travel safely.

I feel better after making it down the NJ Turnpike.

Across the PA Turnpike, just south of Harrisburg

we find the Pike, stop at the Flying J Travel Plaza

for Tastycakes, a Diet Mountain Dew, Starbursts.

Sand stings our ankles as it blows across the lot.

Back out on 81, wind whips us back and forth.

In my rearview mirror there’s a truck towing

a muscle car, a Chevelle or GTO, not sure which.

When I look ahead, I notice a mini van parked on

the interstate, I’m lucky to have my wits about me.

I cut to the right, ride the shoulder- knowing cars

going this fast can’t stop on wet pavement. I see

their dopey faces staring at a truck tire in the road.

In my mirror the trailer jackknifes, the antique car

flips into a ditch, trucks and cars roll, I step on the gas.

My hands grip the wheel, the rain keeps falling,

and when I twist my mirror I see how lucky we are.

I notice my son working his thumbs on his Gameboy.

I hear cars racing around the track, tires squealing,

and in the background a strange circus music plays on.

DREAM HOME

They gave up on moving. They weren’t underwater

but they waded knee deep in the waters of debt.

Five houses on the block were up for sale back then.

The prices fell before the Century 21 sign had fallen.

And like so many, not selling meant staying and fixing.

He sat at the kitchen table with a guy from Sears.

Fascinated by the salesman’s Powerbook and how

you could drop it, hammer it or stomp on it and

it would still work. He listened to stories of how

you used to be able to order an entire home from

the catalogue, have it delivered and assembled.

They played with the software, with a few clicks

of a mouse he transformed the old house into his

dream home- red door, black shutters, white siding.

If only it was that easy he thought and told the man

to write him up for a new roof, on payments of course.

SOUTHERN GHOST STORY

Stay away from that old graveyard

planted in the center of the ‘mater fields,

he warned from the top of a Ford tractor

as he finished another sup of black coffee.

No one walked into the cluster of trees to

read faded names or even thought about

moving the ol’ timey headstones. No one

came by to leave flowers or to pay respects.

Crops got planted around the little island of

a dozen graves, walnut trees, angry weeds.

Some said, the plants closest to the graves

yield the smallest fruit, while others said it’s

because workers don’t spend as much time

cultivating or tying the plants. He advised me,

Don’t mess with spooks, boogers, and haints.

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.

WHAT IF HE WERE STILL HERE

If my father was alive, he’d know what to do.

He always knew what to say, how to phrase it.

Maybe I’d send my son there for the summer

to spend time with him on his southern farm.

He would’ve taught the boy how to work hard,

to take pride in your work. He would’ve shown

him the importance of rising early in the morning

and not worrying about when it’s quitting time.

Of course tractor driving lessons would take place,

along with how to be strong willed, respectful,

while not to caring what others think about you.

All lessons would be given with a certain firmness,

yet he would’ve caved in now and then, a sparkle

in his eyes, a mild grin, an exhale before speaking.

All signs to let you know it was for your own good.

Only if he were here, he’d make it all look so easy.

SET YOUR ALARM

and get up when it goes off is what he says.

But I roll over to go back to sleep every time.

I promise to get up; I even say that I am up.

I pull the covers over my head. I get up finally.

We argue because I don’t have my bag packed

and I need to print an assignment for school.

I stay in the bathroom too long, fixing my hair.

He announces the time to me every five minutes.

I can’t figure out what to wear, I change my shirt.

He yells when I pause to select a song on my iPod.

I forget my keys. My cell phone is uncharged.

I forget to bring the note I need to give a teacher.

I miss the bus and don’t have time to eat breakfast.

I eat a cold pop tart and drink an iced tea drink box

while he drives me to school, he doesn’t talk to me

but says, “the Breakfast of Losers, not champions”.

I sit silently when he tells me all I have to do is

get up ten minutes earlier to fix all these things.

I look out the window when he says to me-

“No telling how many planes and trains you’ll miss.”

I reply with, “Yeah, I know” but we both know

how tomorrow will probably be more of the same.

Most times, I say “Love you Dad” when I get out.

Most times, he says “Love you too, have a good day”.

SOMEBODY'S DAD

Surprised at what you say lately, what we now do.

I find myself asking, how did it come to this?

and so this is what it’s like to be somebody’s Dad.

Worrying about our son, hope he follows through.

That sweet little loving boy is what we both miss.

Surprised at what you say lately, what we now do.

Do as you’re told, don’t like it, then too bad.

It’s different now; he thinks we know nothing.

I find myself asking, how did it come to this?

His mind is somewhere else, not worried about us.

Be patient, love him a lot, they say- it’s just a stage,

and so this is what it’s like to be somebody’s Dad.

3:14 PM, DISMISSAL BELL

It is it any wonder the baby boy

born to two teachers waited all day

to decide and come into the world?

Around the time when the book bags

are packed, anxious walkers get let out,

buses get called over the loudspeakers.

Today his parents both had substitutes,

maybe the best reason to be absent.

Finally the doctor pulled him out, after

much pushing by a dehydrated mother

and after much cheering like a football fan

by his father, a man in a green jersey.

Looking at the clock on the hospital wall,

the couple smiled about the time of his birth.

THE ART TEACHER

Today, it’s snowing outside his classroom window,

it all feels like some kind of April Fool’s Day joke.

He thinks of those comparisons to Andrew Wyeth,

his use of light and shadows to illuminate the canvas.

All of that, hidden now in the back of the closet behind

bins of old cassette tapes and Christmas decorations.

It bothers him most when he sits in this place all alone,

without his noisy students, his few friends, or his family.

He dreamed of studying in London, Paris, Barcelona,

but ended up back here, where he started 25 years ago.

Surrounded by Mr. Sketch scented markers, crayons,

paper mache, watercolor projects, green modeling clay.

Posters of the Great Ones hang around the room to

provide background on Dali, Cassatt, Kahlo, and Escher.

As a young man, he’d point at them and tell his teacher-

One day you can hang my picture on the wall with them.

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.

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.