“I hate bingo. I like cribbage.”
Random enough talk from an old woman
a physical therapist is walking 
up and down the rehab center’s hall.
“I like cribbage too,” sys the therapist.
“That’s a good game.” “Maybe we
could play sometime…” and then it trails off
as they get away from me. I pull out 
the notebook, write it all down. I’m like that.
When it come to people, I’m a metaphysical
dog walker. You see me talking, hear something
coming out of my mouth, sounds like 
something I made up or felt or chose
but truth be told — and this one’s true
I promise — I don’t have many original thoughts.
(No one does, really; at least I admit it.)
Everything I say has a leash on it
and  secretly I know I borrowed it from someone
as if I knew they wanted me to take it out for a stroll,
or would have been glad to know I’d thought 
enough of their utterances to let them loose
on the larger world. Dignified them with craft. 
Doing all this hard work of listening and then
trotting out the words of others like eager puppies
as if this work I’ve been made to do paid me
instead of others. As if I just like words
as much as the rest of the world likes dogs,
and walking them is its own goal. Meanwhile
the bingo game’s getting underway
in the common room, the patients are being wheeled in
with their markers and oxygen and cards.
“B14…G5…” Nothing here needs me, and neither
does my father, resting in his room  
down the hall, away from the yapping and 
the physical therapy that he no longer needs;
neither does my mother in her room across the way,
disdaining all the socializing, impatiently insisting
she could go home tomorrow if we let her. That dog
won’t hunt, as the old timers say. It’s not something
worth discussing, and I’ve got other dogs
I can’t wait to walk, if only to get me out of here. 

In the park,
a kite nosediving.
Child crying
as mother strives to 
prevent a crash
that likely will happen
regardless of her hard work.
A red kite straining against
its lead, straight out,
line gone stiff on the wind
as it comes down like
a clock hand being wound
swiftly toward the correct time
as it smashes to earth. Kite
broken, child crying, mother 
now between rattled and relieved
at the cold day outdoors now over
and she can take child home,
sorrowing together: child sobbing,
her trying to explain, sympathy
on full bore; saying they can
put it back together though
she knows they can’t possibly;
the child mollified for now,
not recognizing the scent
of Wite-Out saturating the air.  

Jesus H, he says,
then he says it again. He looks
sweet in a merchandised way,
like a butterfly decal
on the rear windshield on a car
ahead of me that I can’t pass,
irritating for his actions not his
nature. I can’t discern his nature, 
obviously. He’s standing in front of
an endcap table in a discount store,
raging at the children’s books
piled there in no particular way. 
I know it’s here, he says. Jesus H,
why can’t they shelve these? It’s 
one book they have, I saw it yesterday, 
would have bought it then if I’d known
it would look like this today. I ask myself
how could he know it would be different
today? Then again, how could he not know?
Things pile up. The children’s stories
get lost in the piles. Your butterfly decal
don’t mean shit compared to the fascist state
and Jesus H gave up a long time ago.
Rage all you want. This is literature
in front of you. It’s not supposed to be 
anything except a mess. Whose world
do you think you live in, old chum?
I realize my fists are clenched so hard
I’m almost bleeding from the dents
in my palms. Chill, I tell myself.
Jesus H, who do you think you are
that this man should matter this much
to you or to anyone other than his family?
They probably bought him the damn decal.
He probably put it there
to placate his granddaughter. And you’re
making that up, anyway. You have no idea 
what he drives, if he drives. He sure doesn’t
seem sweet. What are you looking for,
I ask him? He names a book, I help him look,
it’s not there, maybe it was bought I said, 
he agrees and that’s it. Nothing sweeter
than that: two old guys lamenting
a world without satisfaction. Jesus H,
I tell myself. I walk away, relieved
that so little was demanded of me today

I keep dead friends
in my pockets: so many
people minimized. They
pinch my hands when I reach for
my keys. They tap out regrets
on my thighs when I do not
expect it. I stop in mid-stride
on busy sidewalks
and try to decipher
the messages — dear me,
so many. Names I’d tried
to forget but it’s such a crowd
now, worse in winter when
they surge into all of my coats and some
even hang off my scarves,
swinging free in blizzard wind
when it blew and covering up
when it is still and cold. 
I wish they were still and cold
as well but there they are
among gum wrappers 
saved for the trash,
straddling the Swiss Army knife
as they wait for my hand to appear.
Dead friends, so many, how difficult
to hold them at arms’ length
when they are there all the time 
tugging at me, staying warm
while I stay cold and wishing
they’d stop, leave, go where
they have always belonged
and stay there. Leave
my pockets alone, old chums.
Empty them and go.
All that’s in there now
is your dark mess
and I do not wish
to carry it for you.

They’ve trained us so well
we believe in midnight
magic, a dividing line.
After a while we cannot recall
that the mind
makes midnight, not the world.
No different than
2:47 AM, it moves
all around the earth. Call it 
a boundary because you need one.
Only reason. It makes you feel
heroic to breach it or to 
honor it, depending on 
what you desire. Fly in
across that line to stop 
a bomb, a train, a love
affair. Fly in across
that line to advance
a dream, a peace, a war
on hammering sound and
thickened old blood. 
Time is one of those things
that’s real but not
as we have been led to
imagine; that fact sounds
so pedestrian it might get killed
as it crosses the street toward
midnight. Toward what we 
have been taught to believe.
The body, the belief lingering 
between life and death. You lie 
there thinking interstitially
right up to 2:47 AM when 
you finally fall asleep, flat
on your back, mouth open,
inhaling, exhaling, hanging
out of time completely. 

It’s a project. Doorways. Walking backwards through.
Not like entering, not like leaving.
Ghosts know this: not all passages
lead somewhere. Who you are 
and where you’re going are sometimes
unrelated. Where you’ve been might be
the only place you can know. The walls
become exhausted here from holding up
lights, so they go dark. Easier to hold up
mystery than fact, journey than destination. 
This is a doorway and you are halfway here,
halfway there. Peekaboo, darling I’m home,
now I’m here, now I’m there. This is how
loss never ends. Doorways out of interiors.
Interiors glimpsed from doorways, from 
exteriors. Wilderness everywhere. Tired
of assuming civilization’s in there, and
uncivilized is out there. You lean against
the doorjamb, sleep
standing up halfway between.
Walking backwards exhausted, 
a guilty party behind you, or before you. 
How to describe this world 
that endlessly holds its past at arm’s length
and won’t enter its present for fear
of walls enthralled to ghosts forever,
leaving no distance between us
that suspends us in doorways
between what is allegedly safe and 
what’s drowned in flop sweat? Don’t bother,
walk backwards, keep quiet, stay alive
if not free, if not either in or out.

What it will take you
to be present now,
this deep in time
from your starting point,
is the willingness
to chase presence
along ruts in your road
until it stands still
for you. For you,

it will pull off
the trail
and watch until 
you see it and then
it will gesture.
To see it and respond
you will have to 
stop. Stop

and step away 
from the too-worn trail
for a moment and walk 
(don’t run) into 
the clearing where it
stands and say,
hello or namaste
or whatever moves you;
it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter

if it answers you
in your own language
or with words you’ve
never heard or even if
you do not understand
them as not much
about this
is about understanding.

Understanding is 
your boogeyman,
your feared beast,
your somehow
still-longed-for handcuff;
if you’d given that up
long ago
and relied on just 
standing there with
what you’re currently
facing, what’s always
been ahead of you,
you would have known
all along the truth 
of your presence and
how to hold it close,
what it would take.

Consider the long work of the men of industry:

these steps
carved with
tools of stone,
bronze. iron,
steel;

the rails alongside
carved from wood
with tools of stone, 
bronze, iron,
steel;

all the fires
used to forge 
the tools,

all fueled
with wood peat
coal and oil of whale
shale and the blackened
deep raised from beneath
our feet.

They’ve been building for so long.

How much higher 
does the monument
have to tower
over the stench
for them to be able
to stand on top,
breathe deep of the smoke
and carnage below, 
and call it good?

Snow tomorrow,
not first snow but
first plowable depth.

At some point tomorrow
you’ll be seated,
chin in hand, 

trying to guess
how bad the roads are
while regretting

unpurchased hot cocoa 
that would have made
for complete comfort

and safety in the living room
from which you watch 
a world slowly changing.

As things disappear into 
humps under snow
you will shake your head

at unprepared cars
slipping down hills
and around corners,

and you will feel again
the ancient fear:
what of everything I most love

will not reemerge
when this snow is gone,
when the winter is gone?

measuring my weeks

sifting through days
as if they were
lumps in a sugar bowl

examining the texture
of each rock
of particulate sweetness
hoping for a spoonful
to cure what ails me

selflessness
is so sour

not that I would know that
except in theory

as I am so offensive
and rank with my
own decades of
misguided self care

nothing tastes sweet