POEM - RUNNING

when I think back on it
I just don’t know
what the hell I was thinking.
running
I began running
in the third grade
and kept with it
through graduation
track and cross country
pre season and post season
in the freezing winters
and the steaming summers
five miles
ten miles
I was just running
all the time
I wasn’t running from anything
or to anywhere
just out on the trails
or on the side of the roads
I wasn’t chasing after anybody
or running from the law
just running
and with all that running
I was in great shape physically
but a lot of good it did me.
now I’ve got bad knees
and a bad back
and I know I’ll never
be in that kind of shape again
and when I think back
on all the time I spent
running around
I wonder if I wouldn’t
be better off
to have been practicing
the harmonica
or learning how
to survive in the wilderness
or maybe just sitting on my ass
reading a book

POEM - NOTES

my mother was the type of woman
who left notes
all around the house
I’d come home from school
and there’d be a note
on the door that said,
“take off your shoes”
I’d take off my shoes
go into the bathroom
take a piss
while seeing above the toilet
another note that said,
“remember to put down the seat.”
I’d move over to the sink
to wash my hands
and on a post it note
on the mirror it’d say,
“wash your hands”
and “turn faucet all the way off”
when I finished in the bathroom
I’d go into the kitchen
and on the counter
in her big, round letters
there’d be a list with circled numbers
“1. take out the trash”
“2. let the dogs out”
“3. there’s food on the middle shelf
in the fridge”
inside the refrigerator
there’d be Tupperware containers
and each one would be labeled
“lasagna – microwave on high
for three and a half minutes”
or “homemade pizza – cook
eight minutes in toaster over. Do not burn!”
as I grew older
I began to resent these notes
because I felt that no matter
where I went,
she was always telling me what to do.
so I began to disregard the notes
but then when I skipped out
on taking out the trash
the next thing I knew
there was another note that said,
“you forgot to take out the trash.
Please take out the trash
before you do anything else.”
I found I couldn’t totally
disregard the notes
if I read them
so I tried to stop reading them
but it seemed that everywhere I turned
there was another note.
“please vacuum the back hallway”
or “finish the milk before it goes bad”
or “remember dump day is tomorrow.”
finally I grew up and left home
and got away from all those notes
but everywhere I go
nowadays
I carry around a pad of paper
and a pen
and anytime I need to
remember to do anything
I whip out that pad
and scribble it down
and can’t rest easy
until I know I’ve made a note of it.

POEM - MOVING DIRT

every few days a freighter
carrying hundreds of tons of dirt
comes into port
when the tide is high.
I can see it from my window
the dirt is moved by crane
into a huge mound
and from there it is loaded
by backhoe
into dump trucks
and transported
a few blocks away
to a large lot
where it waits
until another winter storm
when it is again loaded
into smaller trucks
to be spread over the roads
to make them less dangerous
in icy and snowy weather
and then when the spring comes
the dirt gathers
on the sides of the road
some getting swept up by
the street sweeper
in his little sweep cart.
I look out the window and think,
“winter? what a great pain in the ass.”

POEM - ANT HOUR

it had frosted in the desert overnight
and when I left in the morning
to go to work
ten thousand sugar ants
snuck in through an old water pipe
and marched in a solid line
as thick as a quarter
across the entire house
to where the cats ate their tuna.
I came back at noon and screamed,
“what the shit is that?”
and I spent my lunch hour
making a trip to the hardware store for munitions
to commit a grand scale genocide
of senseless beasts
and then cleaned up the whole mess
with a mop and bucket.
when I returned from work in the evening
everything was ship shape
and I had a hard time believing
if the whole thing had actually happened.
I asked my friend
(who was renting the house)
if she’d ever had ants
and she said,
“no, I’ve never seen a single one in here.”
I went to the fridge
and grabbed a beer
and sat down and said,
“hmm. Just how weird will things get?”

LIP SPLITTING FUN

the Pilot came storming into the bar and
roared, “all right! Who’s ready
for some lip splitting fun?”
none of us answered him
and the few that had
acknowledged him
quickly turned away
hunched back over their drinks.
“come on,” he shouted,
walking down the long line of barstools,
slapping people on their backs.
“who’s down for some lip splitting fun?
Some real lip splitting fun?”
the thing was
that nobody was interested
in any lip splitting fun
and although we could presume he meant,
“who wants to fight?”
we really had no idea
what the Pilot was talking about.
After making a few rounds
up and down the bar
and getting no takers
the bartender finally said to him,
“Bill, just sit down and have a beer.”

POEM - THE LONG COMMUTE

he was often late because
he road the public bus system
and we all know how those are.
It took him three hours round trip
to come to that job
which was paying us
seven and a quarter an hour
before taxes.
All day long we sat there
kicking at the asphalt
and all day long
he’d talk about quitting that job
because it wasn’t worth the commute.
We’d grunt and snort
and finally one of us would say,
“well, it is a mind numbing
and low paying job, but it is a job,
and there aren’t many of those
around here right now.”
But every Thursday when he arrived
he’d have snapped from the commute
too much time on the public bus system
somebody on the bus
would have smelled too bad
or some baby would have been crying
the entire time.
He’d storm over from the bus stop
and slam his fist down
on the valet stand and say, “that’s it!
I’m tendering my resignation.
I’m done with this fucking job.”
He’d spend the rest of the day
writing and rewriting
a page long resignation letter
(they were required there in Nevada)
and fax it over to the head office
before we closed up shop.
Then on the following day
he’d come jogging over from the bus stop
and pull out another sheet of paper .
He’d spend the day writing and rewriting
a letter that stated
how he had made a mistake
and didn’t want the company
to accept his previous resignation letter.
He did this for eight weeks straight
and then nobody ever heard from him again.

POEM - IT WAS ALL THAT MATTERED

every time he came up to see me
his car broke down
ran him about three hundred bucks per trip
he’d drive two hours up from the Cape
on some weekend
to escape the boredom of living with his mother
we’d go out drinking in the nights
and raise terrible hell.
he’d usually go home with a girl
and call me to brag about it
on Sunday afternoon
and then tell me he was headed home.
a few minutes later he’d call back and ask
for a ride from the auto repair shop
I’d pick him up and bring him to my place
to wait it out over a few beers
we’d sit around and laugh about
how much those bastards at the auto repair shop
would take him for this time.
he took it to the same shop
and each visit they found something new
to fix that they’d missed before
but he had a good sense of humor though
and he’d grin through it all and say,
“well, at least I got to hookup with a girl.”