PASSPORT

They say it takes at least six months,

it’s too late for me to get a passport.

I won’t be flying to Belfast, renting a car

or driving to the countryside of Armagh.

It’s too late to marvel at rustic cottages,

old stone churches and wooly sheep

grazing on the famous green hillsides.

It’s too late to stop at the pub for a pint

and ask directions to the road where his

home is found nestled among the trees.

In the movies, I would’ve driven up and

found him in the front yard raking, playing

with his border collie, wearing a sweater

like the men in Irish Spring commercials.

It’s too late to hear his jovial voice or how

he greeted us all - “Good to see you Lad!”

NO SUCH THING AS FREE FRUIT

It’s August in Jersey, the peaches in A&P are

piled sky high in a pyramid and I have to laugh

when I see the boxes, me and the fruit are from

the same hometown and I’m reminded of summer

driving down Fayette Street, past old fairgrounds

onto Cubby Hollow Road into the flattest part of

the state where you’re surrounded by orchards.

Past Trench Road, I’m tempted like Adam and Eve in

the story from Mrs. Garrison’s Sunday School class.

I pull my little green Mustang over to the shoulder,

take a few steps towards the sagging branches and

know that the fruit will never taste better than this,

the second week in August. Lucky for me, there’s

no sign of workers, all I hear is a bobwhite’s call.

Suddenly an angry man descends a wooden ladder

propped against a tree twenty yards off the road.

I don’t know what he’s yelling, I’m guilty, I run away

fearing an axe handle, a shot gun, or the biting dogs.

If you ever think about helping yourself on some back

road, remember it always seems like no one’s there

in the trees, but they’re working and watching 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.

KINDNESS UNLIMITED

Right out of high school, the impressionable years.

I got a job, saved my paychecks to pay for college.

Ate 7-11’s two for a dollar hot dogs for every meal.

Drank a quart of milk in the morning, a quart at night.

Gave my summers to the place, heavy labor in the sun,

in the rain, humidity, strawberry flies and greenheads.

All hours of the night, delivering to the shore towns

of Margate, Ventnor, Longport and Atlantic City.

Other days we went to Philly, Medford, Cherry Hill.

He always bought lunch. I was always ready to go.

On weekends we’d fish all day in Bay and drink

Stroh’s beer with clients to line up more business.

His wife worked alongside us prepping equipment,

loading trucks, staging the orders and wearing the

same uniform- brown pants, tan shirts, work boots.

She taught me to drive stick shift in a 20 foot truck.

She showed me how to change the oil in the vans.

She gave me a few lessons on how to change a flat.

On my last day, she arranged a ride for me back to

college in a truck delivering an order to the Hyatt.

I remember crying as I said goodbye to them and

when the van pulled away, I never saw them again.

Years later, he told me they’d gotten divorced.

He’s got a new business, she lives with her girlfriend.

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.

ONCE UPON A FARM

He stared into the eyes of stuffed black bears,

fell asleep to the sounds of cattle in the yard

and wrote about it all in his Tennessee Moon.

He gathered barn kittens, chased Corrientes

into livestock trailers, worked a remote to the

head gate for the cowboys, got bucked off that

wild and crazy Pistol, came up covered in gravel,

black and blue, embarrassed, then shed some tears.

Burned his fingers making ‘smores on a bonfire,

strummed his guitar on the porch as we sat in

rocking chairs behind him with big proud grins.

We all watched hours of classic Western films.

Said good morning and good night to Buckskin,

rode the pastures on a four wheeler, drove a Gator

through the rows of a tomato field and parked on

a hillside to gaze at the smoke on the mountains.

When the horses gathered around, it felt like

he had that special power to talk to the animals,

but realized the feed bucket was on the tailgate.

He listened to his grandfather’s stories, hugged him

one last time and heard the promise about putting

the shiny new bass boat into the water- next year.

When he reads this he’ll laugh a little or smile a bit.

In the end he’ll be sad, knowing that it’s over now.