BACK WITH THE SIXERS

Black jersey and a Phillies cap, we drove down

early in the morning with him belted in the backseat.

He read the directions printed out from the internet,

we found the Philadelphia zoo, I called him My Navigator.

I remember being amazed at how the Monkey House hadn't

changed since my kindergarten class field trip back in ’72.

Been a while, a long time since we've been back.

We rode on to Independence Mall and took photos

with the Liberty Bell, people in Colonial costumes and

stopped to hear songs played with a hammered dulcimer.

Dinner was Tony Luke’s, a small steel structure surrounded

by chain link fence, wedged under the Walt Whitman Bridge

Cheesesteaks with onions and wiz never tasted so good.

We kicked a soccer ball in the empty parking lot at the new

basketball stadium named after a bank, not the old Spectrum.

Been a while, a long time since we've been back.

In the game, the Sixers and Wizards dueled it out on the court.

It was April, both teams had no chance of seeing the playoffs.

We sat in the cheaper seats, marveling at the three pointers of

Arenas, gasping at Iverson’s crossover dribble magic, high fiving

strangers and the old black guy next to us who shouted loudly-

C’mon now AI don’t let Gilbert show you up, not in your house.

Been a while, a long time since we've been back.

CONFLUENCE

“When you're travelling, the best advice is

 likely to come from a local person.”-F.Mawer

In Pittsburgh, even the bridges are yellow.

Should’ve painted a few green or blue.

If you end up getting on the wrong bridge,

you’ll probably end up being lost for hours.

In Pittsburgh, they roll with the black and gold.

And things come in threes like Pitt’s flag with

three castles, three rivers, that I always misspell,

and three stars on one side of a Steelers helmet.

In Pittsburgh, be sure to ride the inclines,

they’ll take you up to another neighborhood

make you think how beautiful it must look

at night- the city, the bridges, the confluence.

In Pittsburgh, you must have Iron City beer,

get a Primanti Brothers sandwich, hamburger

drenched in Heinz ketchup on thick, soft bread.

They put the cole slaw and fries on the inside.

In Pittsburgh, you should try to visit Oakland,

stop at the Cathedral of Learning, get a key

to see the classrooms from around the world.

Take a picture with a statue of the panther.

In Pittburgh, you have to go to a ball game,

monuments for Clemente, Stargell, Mazerawski.

The old fans still sing, “We Are Family” and they’ll

tell you all about living in the City of Champions.

In Pittsburgh, get to the Southside, tattoo parlors

and bars line Carson Street- but don’t stay too long

or have too many beers, or you’ll begin to think of

how perfect a yellow P would look on your forearm.

MATCHES

Too early for pretzels, chips, or peanuts.

Too early for Brown Ale or a pint of Bass.

This morning begins like every other day,

with a pot of coffee, demanding pets fed.

Remotes find the obscure cable channels.

A five hour difference makes us get up to

watch games broadcasted from England.

I yell to him, he’d planned to get up too.

It’s football now instead of our old sport.

Its stats and standings replace baseball.

Its star players have replaced basketball.

Boxing Day replaces Christmas morning.

Magpies, Reds, Blues, Black Cats and Spurs

promise to outshine the lights of the tree.

Holidays have become too much work and

enjoying the season starts on this morning.

One day we’ll go there, is what we say.

Doesn't matter who we see, we’ll sit at the

edge of the pitch, we’ll have pies and tea

at half with shivering pink faced supporters.

We’ll wrap team scarves around our necks,

lose our voices from singing and when we go-

Rooney, Bale, and Gerrard will be long gone.

The money keeps us from reaching our goals.

AN ELVIS SIGHTING ON MY WAY TO THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE

“Can you believe it’s been thirty five years?”

says the DJ as the song Suspicious Minds ends.

He wants us all to call the station and answer-

“Where were you back on August 16, 1977?”

Driving along Route 18, I think back to that day.

I was with my cousin. I hardly ever see him now.

He’s bald. I’m gray. We’re old. Last time I saw

him was at a funeral, we stood and talked a bit

and he asked if I remembered the day Elvis died.

It was hot,a humid day,like today,it was back

in the days before so much air conditioning,

We slept shirtless and shook on baby powder.

It was back in the days before we had cable,

DVDs, video games, i-phones and the internet.

We had cards- Old Maid, Crazy 8’s and Go Fish.

We played with flashlights and told scary stories.

We made forts out of sofa cushions and sheets.

We stayed up all night listening to Elvis music

on a beat up General Electric radio. In between

the songs crying fans called in heartfelt eulogies.

I stop at a red light. Love Me Tender is playing.

I look to my left and there he is driving a hot pink

ice cream truck-Elvis at the wheel,big sunglasses,

rings, wristbands and his black hair,now receding.

I ‘m shaken, out of breath and overwhelmed.

I try to figure it out; he cuts me off, he exits.

I read his menu of banana splits, milk shakes,  

and a big slogan- King of Rock n’ Roll Treats.

There’s a photo of fat, old Las Vegas style Elvis,

a cartoon character in a red jump suit and cape.

And a bumper sticker that says-Thank you very much. 

ATLANTIS, MANSION BY THE SEA

Past a flower shaped swimming pool

with its unique jade green tile work

is a gate leading to a boardwalk path.

It takes you through stalks of sea oats

waving in the breeze above the dunes.

We look out over the Atlantic Ocean

where jagged bolts of lightning strike.

A display to rival any fireworks show.

For one week we’ll live in this place

with its vaulted ceilings, 20 foot walls

of plate glass facing out to the beach.

King size beds, Jacuzzis, flat screen TVs,

and a dining room table for fourteen.

A pool table, double headed showers,

multi-leveled decks, a modern kitchen,

artwork of sea creatures and lighthouses.

My wife is quiet, taking it all in until she

discovers the walk-in closet, brightly lit

with shelves, organizers, compartments,

two smooth opening bi-fold louver doors

and separate rods to hang all of our clothes.

Then she says what I’ve been thinking since

early in the day when we got to this place-

“How come we can’t live like this all the time?”

A WEEK ON THE OUTER BANKS

They run to the shoreline holding hands-

a man, a woman, and their two children.

Each one can’t wait to get their feet wet.

It’s the first day on the beach in Carolina.

They’ll stay out past dark with flashlights

as the ghost crabs scurry across the sand.

They’ll swim past midnight in illuminated

pools and drink too many ice cold Coronas.

They’ll get up early for coffee on the beach.

They’ll stare at the sunrise and hunt for shells.

They’ll get down on their knees to build fancy

sand castles with plastic buckets and shovels.

They’ll stare at the ocean, judge the waves,

strap colorful boogie boards to their wrists.

They’ll attempt to have a game of paddle ball.

They’ll throw cheese doodles to the seagulls.

By the third or fourth day, things will change,

less people get up early and less stay out late.

They’ll dress in white shirts and khaki shorts to

take family photos for their Christmas cards.

They’ll feel rich, blessed, and lucky to be here.

Some will start to think of the long ride home.

Some will say stupid things to each other, like-

“I wonder what the poor folks are doing today?”

STAR MAPS

It never seemed possible to me to locate

Orion, the North Star, or the Big Dipper.

It made no sense to me, how 5 shining dots

in the deepest regions of space some how

formed a woman pouring a pitcher of water

or how a cluster of 7 stars is called Hercules.

But tonight I’m sitting on the edge of the world,

or at least the edge of a continent, it’s a place

away from it all, where the “light pollution” is low.

I point my smartphone to the sky and try to learn

what I could never figure out from a textbook or

Mr. Wright, my eight grade Earth Science teacher.

And for a moment, I remember the commercial’s

clever catchall phrase, “There’s an app for that”.

ESCAPE TO WALTON'S MOUNTAIN

a sudden storm put the power out in Charlottesville

sent us on our way, no UVA and no Monticello either.

We left town for another famous American’s home,

winding roads, backwoods, the Blue Ridge Mountains,

we planned this trip as we watched “Season One”.

Won’t be what you seen as a boy on Thursday nights.

You’ll come upon a factory, never heard about that.

You’ll find the house close to the road, only a few yards

from the church, it’s real small and makes you wonder-

How’d they all fit and get along in such a tiny place?

There’s a gift shop modeled after John-Boy’s shed.

The man who bought the family home spends days

shipping books and DVDs to his online customers.

Told us about Earl Hamner’s last visit and how Audrey

stops by now and then. $10 will get you a quick tour.

Down the road is a school, nothing like the one on TV.

A spacious brick building, high ceilings and tall windows

turned into a museum, run by locals to honor the show

and the family who lived here during the Depression.

Each room recreates a scene with props and furniture.

And when I saw it all, I wanted to sneak past

the red velvet ropes and chrome stanchions.

I wanted to hear the Fireside Chat on the radio.

I wanted to sit at the long dining room table and

have black coffee and Olivia’s applesauce cake.

I wanted to write a journal entry at John- Boy’s desk.

I wanted to smell the sawdust from Daddy’s sawmill.

I wanted to go fishing with Jim Bob, Ben and Jason.

I wanted to help Elizabeth feed Reckless and Chance.

I wanted to listen to Grandpa’s stories on the porch.

I wanted to go to swimming with Mary Ellen and Erin.

But they weren’t there and never were. Yes, finally I

understood- it was just a show, based on a writer’s family.

Even the names were different, James, Paul, and Nancy.  

It was then that I realized how the family I knew and loved

were characters played by actors in California in the 1970’s.

A short drive brings you to a new store built on the site of

Ike Godsey’s place that had burned down. And of course-

he’s not there, just two ladies organizing packs of cigarettes.

They made us hot dogs on the grill. We ate at a picnic table

and compared the real family story with the fictional family.

And at the age of Forty two it gave me the same feeling as I’d

had when I found out about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

We took 64 West to 81 South and after a few hours we stopped

for the night to rest and as the lights went out, we both knew

we just had to say it to each other- “Goodnight  John-Boy”.

THE VISIT, 1990

At a counter in a crowded kitchen

decorated with roosters and hens

we sat on stools drinking black coffee

in mismatched cups and chipped mugs.

He showed me his gun cabinet, his prized

Winchester, the gun that won the West.

I knew you’d come one day, he said as he

pulled my kindergarten photo from his wallet.

She mixed the flour with shortening and

used a jelly jar to perfectly cut out biscuits.

I told your Dad that when you got two babies

you have to stay, but he just couldn’t do it.

Sharing memories of the times back in Jersey

turned to a conversation of misunderstandings

and regrets but when I went to leave they said

what they always said to us all, Stay with us.

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.

A VIEW FROM THE BRIDGE

Like an awkward visit back to first grade

with its tiny chairs and puny desks, a trip

home reminds me of how long it’s been.

I’m confused when I drive by past places,

through neighborhoods with no one left.

I’m amazed by the growth of maple trees,

something has managed to thrive in town.

Businesses are closed on Commerce Street,

no signs of victory on the corner of Laurel.

Broad Street isn’t as wide as it used to be

and Pearl Street, no longer a precious gem.

A friend wrote in his yearbook, “Get out of

town it’s a dusty road to nowhere” and from

here, it seems like everyone took his advice.

FIND YOUR WAY BACK

They head out onto the highway at 3am,

an early start on the miles, to beat the traffic

of Baltimore, the heat of the hot summer sun.

He thinks of days before MapQuest or Internet.

How he’d sit up the night before with a huge

Rand McNally Road Atlas and a yellow legal pad

finding the turns, short cuts, and scenic route.

“A bundle of nerves, jumpy as a cat”, 700 miles

alone for the first time, so his father explained it

in his signature, matter of fact, practical way.

Not many people know it, but truck drivers do-

Take odd roads north and south, like 81, 77, and 95.

Take even roads east and west, like 70, 76, and 40.

Read the Interstate signs, you’ll find your way back.

ODE TO HIGHWAY 13

“Sometimes they ask him what he’s thinking about when he’s driving”

I know we’re going the right way when

in the middle of the night we cross the lit up

bridge, it’s a miniature version of the one in

Boston, strange masts, cables in the center.

Johnny Janosik Furniture and The Monster Mile

tell me I’m on vacation and on the right road.

Pickup trucks loaded down with watermelons,

vegetable stands with tomatoes and peaches.

Brick churches from another century are planted

on the highway alongside rows of crepe myrtles.

There’s Machipongo Seafood, plenty of Wawas,

and Mason Dixon for cheap cigarettes and hams.

Farmers on tractors, a different kind of traffic jam.

Rundown school buses filled with migrant workers

ready to work in Eastern Shore tomato packing sheds.

We’ll smell the chickens of Perdue and Mountainaire.

I’ll accelerate past eighteen wheeled bird cages with

feathers flying, lots of clucking, it’ll be their last ride.

I’ll laugh at the Dreamland Mobile Home Park sign and

know that my sleeping family wouldn’t find the same

irony in the big billboard or its slogan, A Touch of Class.

Speed traps in towns with Native American names-

Accomack, Pocomoke, Nassawadox and in counties

with fancy English names- Kent, Sussex, and Worcester.

We’ll see High school car washes, plenty of yard sales,

and a church group selling “authentic Carolina BBQ”.

There’ll be at least one accident, asleep at the wheel?

We’ll see roadside shrines to whole families who died.

Signs for beaches we’ve never been to before make us

wonder why not go to Rehoboth, Dewey, or Ocean City?

We drive on to the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel Bridge,

looking for the blue signs with the white seagull logo.

Fleets of mini vans with luggage racks, bikes, fishing rods

slide south from New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania.

The Jersey Shore is just a memory now, a pile of snapshots.

Been cheating on her for years and they’ll never go back.

Tourists trade places each Saturday on Highway 13 as they

head in two different directions with two different moods.

Perhaps I just drove by a guy from Pittsburgh and his family

that stayed in the very same house that I’ll stay in with mine.

I’ll use the same bathroom, lay my head on the same pillows,

take the same photo of the sun rising above dunes and waves.

READING ON THE ROAD

“All our best men are laughed at in this nightmare land.”- Jack Kerouac

He’s on Chapter 10 now of Kerouac’s classic.

The idea came to him one day while waiting

for his wife in a bookstore when he noticed a

hardcover copy of it on sale for just $7.99.

He thought about buying it since he’d heard

so many references and mentions of the novel.

Instead he came up with a better way to read

it and put the plan into place as he drove across

the country he planned to visit bookstores

not far off the interstates, roads and highways.

In each store, he’d find the low to the ground

fake leather chairs and ordered a large iced tea.

When the chapter was finished, he placed the

book back on the shelf, used the men’s room,

returned to the highway, and drove for another

200 miles or so before finding the next bookstore,

another drink, and where he’d left off in the story.

Maybe he’d be finished by August, near Delaware.

DC TAXI CAB CONFESSIONS

Oppressive heat, high humidity, sweat soaks

my shirt, a triangle of perspiration forms in front.

July makes us call a cab. The doorman hears our

destination and says, Get the chili cheese fries,

milkshakes are awesome, half smokes, real good.

The cab driver is full of suggestions too, a tour guide

on our way to U Street he points out the party zone,

a Presidential mural, Adams Morgan’s best place to

have dinner, but he’s the most amused by a building

with a two story painted cartoon, a red headed lady.

He grows impatient with a construction crew waving

an orange flag to tell him to go, but the light is red.

He tells us he didn’t sleep much last night and when

another cab cuts him off, he mouths- Don’t make me

get out, I will fight- especially if you flip me the bird.

He notices a fine looking woman, a short linen dress,

a general lack of clothing, confesses he likes winter boots

but ladies never look better in this city than in the summer.

He says we’re brave for wanting to eat at Ben’s Chili Bowl,

admitting he’s gastronomically challenged now at his age.

STILL FALLING

We laugh about it now, remembering the time-

hiking in the Smoky Mountains to the little falls

tucked away on a ridge behind rhododendrons,

laurels, moss covered rocks, and crooked pines.

It’s the trail where we saw the salamanders, snails,

and where a nervous black bear saw the two of us.

You needed to get back to the parking lot, to use

the restroom on a hill at the edge of the parking lot.

You insisted on running, you were warned to stop.

I called out to you, but you kept going, feeling it

worth the risk, you looked fleet of foot on the path,

a mini Davy Crockett, a modern day Daniel Boone.

It was all good until your toe stubbed one of the roots

or jagged rocks and it sent you flying for a moment

before you landed on all fours and began to cry pitifully.

Scraped palms and knees, not the last time, for sure.

“It could have been worse”, is what my father said.

And it was enough to make you listen, to slow you down.

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.

BIRDWATCHING ON THE OUTER BANKS

I enjoy watching you crows hop around
with your slick little bodies, shining feathers.
Black, iridescent like oil spots in a parking lot.
It seems you all like to work in groups as
you try to sneak up on the tourist’s garbage.
I want to ask you why you all have feathers
missing in a ring around your scrawny necks.

But it's the sandpipers who work the best
together on the shoreline, moving swiftly to
avoid getting your feet wet. Acting like you aren’t
part of a team, pecking, poking the wet sand
with precision, stopping to run each other off.
And then back to work, even though you don’t
find much at the water’s edge, it’s your spot.

Pelican, you stop me each morning at sunrise with a
rapid crash into the ocean, ugly as the beak you use.
You look bulky and strange, you don’t move sharp or
swift like the jets of today. More like World War Two
fighter planes with your direct paths and staggered
patterns that make me notice your numbers; I count
every time this week and the magic number is six.

Gulls, you are all over, screaming like someone’s
done something wrong or trying to murder you.
Somebody told me to look for you to find the wind’s
direction, since you always put your beak to where
it’s coming from. You don’t like ruffled feathers.
I keep an eye on you if I’m eating food because
I’ve seen your sneaky ways at the Jersey Shore.

Osprey, when you fly, there’s no need to count the
number in your flock, you don’t have any partners.
You go it alone, like your famous cousins, the Eagles.
Sometimes people call you seahawk when they
see you glide on currents of air above the waves.
The flight, the dive, the grab with your talons, barely
getting your feet wet. A few flaps and you are gone.

POSITIVITY

When I drive down Highway 77
to my old hometown
I usually dwell on how
it all went wrong
for the city and my family too.
But I still make the trip to see
empty houses, shut down factories
boarded up stores on Laurel Street.

This time, I rehearse conversations
in my head hoping to see someone I know
or who may vaguely remember me.
I’ll say, “Hey, how’s it going?
“It’s been a while” or
“Glad to see you’re doing fine.”

I’ll drive by Quarter Mile Lane School,
and walk through the kick ball fields.
I go past the projects where I lived,
Big John’s Pizza, Weber’s Candy Store,
a friend’s family home on East Avenue,
and park by the edge of Sunset Lake.

I’ll drive past my grandparent’s house and
stand by a big maple I used to climb out front.
I want to see that someone’s painted it and
that the grape hyacinths and daffodils still bloom.
I want to see the new people hanging their sheets
on the line and piling Autumn leaves by the curb.

I'll eat an Italian sub and go to the custard stand.
I’ll drink a free cup of apple cider from Sunny Slope.
I want to smell the fireplaces in the dead of winter
and the ketchup factory in the dog days of summer.
I want to feel it wasn’t so bad or I need to know
something went right during that time, in this place.

DREAM VACATION

One day, is how the story always began,
a description of fly fishing in Alaskan waters,
a pontoon plane for hire, landing right on the lake.
A week’s worth of catching rainbow trout,
sockeye salmon, northern pike on the shores of
Echo Lake, Cottonwood Lake, and Coyote Lake.
Eagles flying above icy waters, the greenest trees.

Now when I stop to think about him,
it’s hard to remember him speaking of a
trip or vacation in his life of labor and work.
Maybe he considered the days of driving a
General’s Jeep in Japan a type of trip.
Working in logging camps of North Carolina,
living in the woods, movable cabins on sleds
dragged to where the timber was logged.
Driving his tractor for a huge factory farm in
New Jersey must’ve been a type of adventure.

Perhaps he felt he’d already seen the country,
truckloads of Christmas trees, delivering shrubs
to the White House, those days as a nurseryman.
In the end, his greatest trip, back to the foothills
of Tennessee with his sons, where they grew baccer,
thousands of acres of maters, and raised cattle.

Each day, content to walk out his front door
to work in his fields, his greenhouses, his garage.
His wife traveled with her sisters to Myrtle Beach,
Florida, river boat cruises, but he stayed behind.
Content to sit in a slow moving rocker on the porch,
enjoying strong black coffee in a old chipped cup,
smoking, telling his plans of one day going on a trip.