Transit Limbo

I sit in an airport again,
Waiting for a pilot
To take me to another airport.
A half-hour delay drags into three hours.
Exploring dingy newsstands,
Bagel kiosks,
Crummy restaurants with day-old nachos.
My back hurts from sitting, waiting,
Calculating time,
Draining the laptop battery.
Next to me, the purple lady with bad lipstick complains.
This is the worst thing ever, she says,
I'm never flying this airline again.
I tell her to blame the storm ripping through the region,
But she looks at me as if I have a social disease.
Weather, shmeather, she says,
Flying used to be fun, used to be glamorous,
Now they treat you like criminals.
I move away from her and sit across from a woman,
With explosive cleavage.
I try not to notice and put my head down.
I figure out what time it is at home and where I'm headed,
Heavy math,
Wondering if the hotel will save my room.
I think about my kids and where they might be
And what they're doing,
My wife who's sitting in bed alone.
One more day I won't see them,
Good or bad,
Absent father.
Living in airports.
If all the time I waited came together,
How much time would I have?
And what would I do with it to make me a better man?

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Siblings After Supper

Parents retreat to the living room
Playing Broadway show records,
South Pacific, Carousel, Fiddler
While children clean up after dinner.
The daughter, with rising resentment,
Washes the dishes,
Gazing out the kitchen window at the world and its promise of
Boys and escape.
The oldest son,
Fresh from football victory,
His curled locks combed just so,
Shirtless, joking,
Dries the pans,
Cracks the damp towel near
His sister's rear.
Little middle man clears the table,
The easy job,
Moving the plates to the counter,
Sweeping crumbs into his hand,
Squirting blue on the table and
Wiping the streaks to pass inspection,
Then running upstairs to Jules Verne.
The last, too young for chores,
Getting ready for bed,
Doesn't wonder about injustice,
But hums along to Then You May Take Me to the Fair,
Soundtrack of their lives,
Wafting through the house
With the destined future nostalgia of
Place, time, comfort.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Talking About Murder

The couple next to me at the counter is
Talking about murder.
I'm sure of it.
She says, No one deserves it more than he does.
He says, Accidents happen.
I try to ignore them,
Concentrate on my eggs,
Sip coffee.
But my ears are tuned to their huddle,
Whispering,
Plotting.
She says, I don't feel guilty about it.
He says, No one will know.
I look around to see if anyone else has heard,
But the rest of the diner is chirping with mundane conversation.
I chance a glance at the man,
Long black hair, strong nose.
Why does he seem familiar?
He catches me looking at him,
And I wonder if he's now sizing me up for elimination, as well.
How much does he think I overheard?
I ask the waiter for my check and hand him my credit card,
But now the man and woman are aware of me.
A wall of coldness rises between us.
I act nonchalant and check my phone, eye the ceiling,
Pretend I don't know anything,
And wonder if they were talking about me in the first place.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image by Tatmouss

George Shot Lennie

When George shot Lennie
Loneliness ensued,
As it is with all of us when we
Lose something close,
Lover, friend, dog, fish, dream.
Closeness to an object or an idea
Resists easy abandonment.
We cling to them like
Bad habits,
Unable to shirk,
Unwilling to release.
Memories, etched and ingrained,
Holding on no matter what,
Because we know instinctively
That a part of ourselves
Fades, crumbles, disintegrates
When a connection, good or bad,
Snaps.
Goodbye old friend, we mutter.
Adios my ball, my chain, my enemy, my tether.
Then welcome a quiet acquaintance,
And wonder how to survive without the
Remnant of spirited companionship.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Image Entertainment, Of Mice and Men, Lon Chaney Jr. and Burgess Meredith

I Do

At the last second,
Just before I'm supposed to say, I do,
I wonder what would happen if I say, I don't,
Because that's what's in the back of my throat
Waiting to get out,
I do.
Two words, so definitive,
And if believed and upheld,
Would mean the end of everything I know,
And the beginning of promises, hopes, ideas.
I consider saying, I don't,
I really think about it,
Or about saying nothing at all,
Making up my own vows on the spot.
But a woman is staring at me,
Perplexed at my hesitation.
Behind her, friends and family are waiting.
But for what?
For me to echo words I'm not sure I can support?
To simply get on with it so they can start drinking?
The official stares at me, nodding, smiling.
His eyes are trying to reassure me, as if to say,
It's OK to be worried, to not be sure,
But say the words already, will ya?
There will be plenty of time later to
Think.
For now, hell, what is it I'm supposed to say?
What is it that's making me dizzy and to lose all feeling in my feet?
I don't,
But I do.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
The Marriage of Tristram and Isoude Les Blanches Mains by Edward Burne-Jones

Dog Food

I forget to feed the dog
So he sits next to me,
Looking forlorn,
Throwing his eyes at me as if to say,
Don't forget about me.
His stomach tells him something is wrong,
But I've forgotten, busy with human things,
Not to be worried with a canine's appetite.
But to him, hungry, dependent,
This is all there is.
Eating, playing, sleeping.
He's never known physical love,
Forever absent from females and testicles.
If only life was that simple for everyone,
But for the hunger,
A gnawing, roiling, belly fierce.
I finally remember, apologize, and
Leap to fill his bowl with
Sorrow and envy.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo by Ohiopetwatch

Typing Exam

The teacher turns off the lights and
Starts talking.
She says, Type what I say.
Exam.
Darkness conceals the keys and
Mutes the sound of manual typewriters being struck
And the occasional humming of a Selectric,
Typeball clicking.
Cheating is impossible.
We knew this was coming.
The U above the J.
The C down and left under the F.
Slow down.
Think this through.
Picture the keys in your mind.
But the teacher talks fast.
She says, The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, and
Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs,
Which makes us laugh.
If typing in blinding black is a high school ritual,
Then why do I still feel so alone
In crowded rooms,
And at every turn of the day?
Night obscures the unknown
And enriches it with longing.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo by Etan J. Tal

Tickets

I wait for you in the deli down the street,
Anticipating, hoping, uneasy,
Trying to blend in because I don't intend to buy anything.
Time sucks at the tickets in my pocket.
They won't be worth much in a few minutes.
Is it legal to scalp them?
No matter.
A guy a few chairs away with a
Messenger bag and dark greased-back hair
Is staring at me,
I look away, but return to see his eyes still drilling into me,
Unnerving.
I get up to confront him but
He looks past me and
I realize he was flirting with a girl
Sitting behind me.
Where are you?
Is this the lesson I have so long deserved,
Or just the second misunderstanding of the day?

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo by Poem Fix

Birdcage

At 77th and 5th
I stop to take a picture with my barely functioning camera,
A building reflected in a puddle,
Taxi speeding by,
The park behind me,
Welcoming,
Leaves thinking of change.
Tired, I walk a few more blocks and
Rest on a green wood bench
Across from scaffolding,
Twins in a stroller,
A teen wearing a Kong is King shirt.
A woman walks past,
Then turns back and approaches me with concerned eyes,
Extending a dollar.
She says, Here you go.
I'm not homeless, I say.
She keeps the money out and stares at me hard.
You look like you could use it, she says.
I shake my head and simply say, No.
She shrugs, pockets the dollar, and walks away,
Leaving me to wonder who I am,
And thinking I should have taken the money and
Used it to line my birdcage.
Wait,
I don't have a bird.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo by Poem Fix

Silly Little People

I wonder how you're doing
But I can't call you
Even though that makes too much sense.
Can't have that.
The rules say that's not allowed.
It wants to eat me up from the inside,
Dissolving the lining of my stomach with
Wretched bile comprised of
Guilt, anger, pride.
OK, I get that,
But it doesn't move me to dial your number today.
Maybe tomorrow.
That seems like a good time to reach out,
Give a shout out,
A unilateral act,
But probably not.
This is the way it is between people who aren't strangers,
A ridiculous, complex dance of
Intellectual stubbornness and gorgeous misunderstanding.
Past days cannot be captured.
They can be summarized,
But their wholeness and spirit have evaporated forever.
Silly little people who won't be here for long,
Allowing days to blend into
Clouds that dissipate so they can't cast shadows.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo by AWa

What Time Is it?

If I ask you what time it is
Please ask me why I care.
Because I know the answer already,
And I'm only asking for confirmation.
Besides, does it really matter
If it's ten after or a quarter till?
Why is it your responsibility to be my clock,
To get me to a meeting on time,
To check the oven?
Don't tell me the hour;
Tell me it's time to wake the
Hell up,
To take control,
To be responsible,
To make wiser decisions.
Time to do something about it,
To get on with things,
To look in the mirror,
To see,
To really see.
What time is it?
Come here and I'll make you feel it.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
 Photo by Jorge Barrios

Loveseat

They are sitting close together only because
The couch is so small
And they've sold the chairs that once flanked the coffee table.
She would sit on the floor to find space,
But that would give him too much.
He doesn't care either way.
She could be in China for all he cared.
He has the remote control and a drink,
So he's set.
They pretend to care, to communicate.
He, sitting in his boxers,
Holding his stomach in,
Hoping she'll notice and that she'll regret what she's missing.
She, thinking about the pool man who visits the neighbor,
And hoping he'll be gone for a while tomorrow
So she can be alone without leaving the house.
But now, watching TV together,
Their bodies brush lightly together,
Making sparks that go unheeded.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

An Idea for a Song

I thought of an idea for a song
That put me back in a
Small house
Across from the infinite desert.
I'm always in that house and
Its narrow hallways,
Tiled counters,
Always on that sacred ride
In its open carport by
The saturated, scorpion filled canals against
The new school down the street.
That's the song I wanted to compose,
But it kept bleeding into the
Mounds of pool dirt and that
Nameless girl who told me
Something I didn't want to know.
The house resists a melody,
Pushes me away,
As if to say I should look elsewhere.
And on that cold Thanksgiving morning,
Pedaling through the empty neighborhood,
Carrying something,
And getting one of those shivery
Moment feelings
On the back of your neck
And the awareness that it will be important
One day.
So I let the tune go,
Just as I am letting all those aspirations fall away.
A part of me is still on that street
But I just can't get it
And so I release the song and its premise.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Doorway

When you walk through a doorway you forget where you were going and why.
Did I need paperclips or a stamp?
On the way to check the mail or get a drink?
But the doorway gives your mind permission to
Let go of where it was,
Moving on,
Done with that,
Free up some space.
That leaves you standing there,
Feeling silly,
Holding the bag,
Wondering if it's a precursor to senility.
You tell yourself it was important,
Or unimportant,
But you close your eyes,
Helping your brain track breadcrumbs,
Relaxing into it,
Trying to feel it,
But it's gone.
Lost it,
Almost nostalgic for it already.
There are more doorways and arches ahead,
And they loom like sirens,
Taunting and calling you.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Ishai Parasol

Love Sick Highway

A computer tries to
Write this poem,
But it is too rigid,
Standing still
Like a statue at the bottom of the ocean,
Sideways, carefully.
It craves the capacity to
Luxuriate in the randomness that
Molds us, defines us, offers us
Conviction,
But it has to be satisfied with
Instructions on how to
Find ourselves, and
Fix things before autumn arrives.
God, Earth, and the beginning of time areHiding, and not hiding,
As if we didn't know that,
As if a shade of what we want to be
Is good enough.
All it cares about it is setting us on course,
Helping us find an adequate road,
But always the shortest distance,
Forever avoiding dangers
And exquisite unpredictability.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Travis

Vertigo

The woman cutting my hair is about to be old.
She tells me that her son got out of bed and
Tumbled through the closet door.
He was dizzy, I'm telling you, she says,
Diagnosed with vertigo.
Vertigo, I'm telling you.
He had to take the dog outside,
Which is why he sat up so fast,
And then he just fell into the closet door and
Smashed it in half.
He was also on the way to the bathroom, but
I didn't tell that to the doctor because
That's not my place.
But vertigo?
That's what he has and I wish people understood it.
Is this too short?
Just let me know.
But my son, oh I do everything for him, I'm telling you.
Well, everything except helping him to the toilet,
If you know what I mean.
Oh, don't mind the blood.
I cut myself all the time.
You're looking white all of the sudden.
Do you need some water?

 © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Art by Edo 555

The Scary Giant

Is there anyone out there?
Listening?
Thinking?
Participating?
Contributing in any way?
Other than the mournful giant who
Trembles through the woods,
Looking for fresh meat,
A human's head to snap off for a snack.
Politicians say
Blah, blah, blah,
And we pretend it matters.
It's hard enough decoding the difference between
Regular and organic peanut butter, and pondering
If we all lost our jobs today
Would the electric company shut everyone off.
So I pursue the mysterious giant,
Trudging through the wild,
The indulgent ferns and impossible forests,
Wondering if he has a green card.
Hello?

 © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Art by Francisco de Goya

Shoes

I find a pair of shoes I like and ask to try them on.
The clerk says she doesn't carry half sizes
So I choose the next one up,
Which turns out to be too big.
I request the next size down, but
She frowns at me
While balancing six boxes that no one wanted.
I say, I'm sure they will fit.
She sighs world weariness and says OK.
After a long time she emerges from the back with my shoes.
She hands me the box with an expression that begs for acceptance,
Silently imploring me to buy them without trying them on
So she doesn't have to pack them up and lug them away.
The shoes are much too snug but I don't have the
Heart not to buy them.
Maybe I can squeeze into them a few times and so get use out of them.
I'll take them, I say, but she seems to know they don't fit.
She says, You don't have to.
I say, They fit really well and they're perfect and
I wouldn't have found them without your help.
I can tell she sees right through me.
Please don't buy them on my account, she says,
I really couldn't handle that today.
I try to convince her but she pulls the shoes away from me and puts them on a tall pile to be returned to inventory later.
She says, I don't always act this way.
I don't say anything else.
Neither does she.
I walk away but immediately try to think of an excuse to go back that won't make her feel pitied.
I want to save her from having to kneel in front of people,
Smell their socks,
Spend hours standing on ladders, searching for shoes.
Is there a way to engage her without making her feel worse?
I wander aimlessly around the store for a few minutes but soon return to the shoe department.
She's vanished, along with my dreams of deliverance.

 © Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by How can I recycle this?

Low Carb Diet

Everything looks good when I'm on a
Low carbohydrate diet,
Even foods I don't eat like
Bacon, pepperoni and
Stuffed cabbage.
Man was not meant to live on smoked trout alone, or
Cheddar cheese,
Pickles,
Marinated asparagus,
Egg whites,
Tuna,
Diet soda, and the resulting
Constipation.
Who says we should all have
Washboard abs and
Crest 3D Whitestrips teeth?
I draw the line at using
Grecian Formula.
But maybe I will weigh a half-pound less tomorrow
And it will all be worth it,
The world will be right and
I will be the sexist person alive.
Then, slowly, inexplicably,
Begin the steady climb back to my
Former weight,
Feasting on pizza.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo by Renee Comet, National Cancer Institute

Fantasy Football

Fantasy football,
No fantasy.
Obsessive obsession,
Pride, respect and office worthiness.
Trophy on desk,
Conspicuous,
Returning champion,
Everyone gunning for
Last year's winner.
No flying under the radar this time,
No one agreeing to trades,
Wanton unsportsmanlike conduct,
Quasi cheating,
Backroom deals.
Silly and hideous conspiracies every week.
Sunday enjoyment vanishes,
Replaced with anxious math.
Forget about team performance,
Revel only in individual highlights.
Restful byes,
Ruined lineups,
Decimating injuries,
Scorn of other team owners in hopes of
Tantalizing, wondrous, fleeting victory.
Spouse patronizing and
Condescending.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012