UNANSWERED TEXTS

    









-For Cassy, my wife

Did you miss me?

Are you on your way?

What do you want?

How about Thai food?

It’s Tuesday, they’re closed.

You don’t want pizza.

Wish you’d answer me.

Then I’d know what to bring.

One day I may be texting…

as I take my last breath.

Even then, you wouldn't answer.

Then you’d feel guilty forever.

Hope you’re on your way.

I’ll figure out the meal.

I’ll decide. Imagine that!

See you when I see you.

Answer when you get this.

But not if you’re driving down the road.

MOST WINTER NIGHTS

I go upstairs before my wife, she always
has so much work to do and when I’m tired
I just go to bed. Before I climb the wooden stairs
I check the doors to make sure they’re locked.
I turn the porch lights off. I put the thermostats
down to sixty four. I peek in at my sleeping son,
say- “Catch you in the morning. Have a good sleep”.
Each night I like to open the blinds so that I can lie
on my pillow and look out and see the street light.
Sometimes I even crack the window a little bit to
listen to the cars glide by now and then across the
slick pavement from the melting piles of snow.
I close my eyes and pay tribute to my grandfather
each night by saying his simple bedtime prayer of
thanks-“Good ol’ bed.” Then I flip over my pillow
to the cooler side, feel at peace and drift off to sleep.

STACKED UP

A plastic water bottle,
a weekly pill organizer,
an old glass lamp covered
over in a layer of dust,
and the clock radio can
barely fit on her bedside table.
This year’s goal is fifty
and that’s why books
are stacked in piles like
Oreo cookies on a child’s plate.
She devours pages, savors words
each night instead of sleeping,
because she knows there won’t
be any crumbs on the pillow
in the morning.

Panic On Highway 81 or Nothin' But the Taillights

Back then, it felt like the truck drove itself.
Young enough, to go to classes, then head out
on a 700 mile road trip at three in the afternoon.
No need to rest, or stop to eat or drink. Just drive.
No need for a road atlas, just shift the gears to fifth,
my little red Ford Ranger pickup knew the routine.

Climb hard, coast down; hit the gas at the bottom
to get back up the next mountain that’d be coming.
Make it out of Tennessee, start thinking how big
Virginia really is since you’re sliding diagonal up 81.
Check the clock, check the odometer. Mark the trip
by the cities-Wytheville, Blacksburg, Roanoke, Lexington.
Get to Harrisonburg; feel like you’re making progress?

Sun goes down, air grows colder, radio always fades.
Marvel at Autumn trees, showing off this weekend.
Think about seeing my wife after being away six weeks,
you smile. Hearing Ozzy’s Mama I’m Coming Home,
you laugh. Notice a car in your rearview mirror.
you panic. A tailgater on this road, no reason to be
so close, acceleration lane clear, he stays behind
making you nervous, frustrated, a bit angry.
Slow down to let him pass, speed up to lose him.
Wonder, if you cut him off, is he the police, a convict?

Twilight now, plan to exit at Stephens City,
before Winchester onto a road called Route 7,
340, US 15? You don’t remember it’s name.
If he follows, you know he’s after you. Sure enough,
he follows. Heart pounds with anxiety, you go past
the familiar line of fence posts of a Black Angus farm,
the curvy road in front of Patsy Cline’s Rainbow Room,
Dinosaurland, the little dinky post office in Berryville.

Still he follows you. You’re almost into Charles Town.
You’ll pull over into Tastee Freeze, they’ll call the police.
For a brief moment you wish he’d just get it over with.
You jump out of the truck, close your eyes, say a prayer,
come to terms with the fact that you’re about to be dead.

A simple man in his early thirties gets out of his car,
walks over to you, smiles and says in a calm southern voice-
I’ve been trying to get your attention. You see, I been following
you for about fifteen miles now. I wanted you to know that
you ain’t got no taillights. Not safe riding up the Interstate
with no taillights. Man could wind up getting himself killed.

You nod, take a deep breath and tell him you appreciate it.
You mention he didn’t have to do that. You say he’s too kind.
After he leaves, you walk to the window and order the biggest
chocolate malt shake you’ve ever had. You change the fuses.
You calm yourself down, consider yourself lucky and drive on.

SECURITY DEPOSIT SUMMER

I don’t remember how my wife and I
found our second apartment. The first,
just a studio, was too small, too fast.
Noisy neighbors, no place to park,
a shower that abruptly turned cold.

Maybe we found it in the Star Ledger,
it was valuable then, everybody read it,
everybody bought it, everybody needed it.
A colorful brochure, a floor plan layout of
a one bedroom, ground floor apartment.

Close to the Parkway, Turnpike, Route 1.
It would make it easier to get to work
is what I told Marty, as I approached him
for a loan for the hefty security deposit.
He was my boss, but a different kind of boss.

It always felt like talking to an uncle, a brother,
a friend. After a year he looked after me and
cared for me, treated me like I was important
to business, included me in the many plans for
the company he started with his cousin, Alan.

Don’t pay me back; I want you to work it off
on Saturdays through the summer months.
A handshake, a pile of hundreds stacked neatly
in a blue and white United Jersey Bank envelope
and one of the company’s box trucks got us moved.

Weeks passed, we worked side by side in the heat.
Unloading trucks, loading trucks, preparing orders.
Each afternoon around three, an orange soda break.
In September, we agreed- the debt was done, settled,
paid back the old fashioned way, with time and sweat.

LOOKING FOR IMPROVEMENT

at the Home Depot on Route 9
trying to fix up his little home,
it’s not worth what it used to be.
Finally a decision was made, since
The Economy is rough now, just stay.
“If we stay, we fix it up”, said his wife.
In each aisle he thought about what to get.
A Rustic Iron Hampton Bay fan and light,
glazed porcelain tile in soothing Earth tones,
some easy install Resilient Interlocking Planks?
The 12 x 12 Catalina Canyon Tile is awesome.
Oak Artisan Laminate floors- even better and
like the sign says, Your ideas become reality.
Carpet stair treads with double stick tape,
Roughneck Totes to store summer clothes,
rod and finial sets for living room curtains.
Purple violets for 2.99, but they look sickly.
Anderson Windows would look great, that sign
says, They’re the Windows that More Builders Buy.
Pink Fiberglass rolled out in the attic saves heat.
New numbers, a nine and a one in simulated pewter.
A new porch light has been needed for a while.
Caulk for the tub, since it’s always mildewed.
He walked through the lumber section even though
he didn’t need wood, the smell reminded him
of Junior High wood shop class with Mr. Kelly
where he made bookends and a napkin holder.
The possibilities are endless, alls you need is money.

GETTING OLDER EVERY DAY

I get up as soon as the sun comes up without an alarm.
I put on slippers before coming downstairs.
I go straight to the bathroom to pee when I get up.
I have a bottle of Extra Strength Tums on my night table.
I sit on the toilet for longer periods of time.
I understand the value of Icy Hot, Visine, Pepto-Bismol, Preparation H, and Advil.
I take my glasses off to read and put them on to watch TV.
I have trouble hearing what people say in a crowded noisy room and nod sometimes when I don’t know what they say.
I turn The Weather Channel on three or four times a day to check the forecast.
I get tired around six o’clock, (right after dinner) and I fall asleep in my chair.
I have at least a dozen sweaters and do not hesitate to dress in layers once fall begins.
I enjoy wearing brown, navy blue, gray, and black.
I believe it is important to wear a necktie to work.
I wear a hat when it rains.
I carry a handkerchief in my pocket almost every day, but I don’t blow my nose on it yet.
I wear a sweatshirt that is about twenty years old.
I plan to buy white Chuck Taylor high tops and black cowboy boots. I want the two kinds of shoes that I was forbidden from getting as a child.
I prefer wearing shoes to sneakers.
I don’t wear my newly purchased shoes home from the shoe store and I don’t run through the aisles with my new sneakers on.
I wear a watch every day and I feel strange if I don’t.
I know what time it is within 10 to 15 minutes without looking at a watch or clock.
I don’t like to be late and feel that it's important to be early.
I hate to wait for anyone when I plan to go someplace.
I check the thermostats whenever I walk by them. I adjust them often.
I turn out the lights throughout the house and at work too.
I offer coworkers advice about retirement savings and tax sheltered annuities.
I am proud of myself for purchasing extra life insurance and often joke about how I am worth more dead than alive.
I tell my son not to get caught up with all these young girls. There will be time for women later and they’ll be much better. Your studies are more important.
I tell him that the sweetest fruit doesn’t always fall from the most beautiful of trees.
I enjoy watching my son play soccer and can't think of very few things I’d rather do instead.
I remind him how important it is to do well in school and get into a reputable college.
I worry every time I leave him somewhere that it’ll be the last time that I see him.
I purchase DVDs and introduce my son to old movies and classic television shows.
I don’t get upset the way I used to when my wife doesn’t feel like having sex.
I argue with my wife but we are usually not angry with each other after 20-30 minutes.
I vote straight down the line at elections because I know my wife votes straight down the line for the otherside.
I forget to tell my wife what she means to me and fail to give her the respect she deserves.
I sometimes call my wife, Mom. I called her Mother once and we both felt really weird.
I remember the prices of old food products and articles of clothing and I share these memories with younger people.
I don’t have to buy German beer in glass bottles anymore. I drink American beer in brown bottles.
I know the difference between a merlot, a malbec, and a cabernet sauvignon.
I watch my salt intake and try to avoid fatty foods.
I get food on my moustache and chin when eating soup and salad.
I quote old commercials and talk about characters from old TV shows like they're old friends.
I can sing the Lowenbrau, Miller, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and Piel’s songs from the Seventies.
I enjoy grocery shopping.
I like to do the laundry.
I buy bird seed and fill up bird feeders in my yard.
I know what sounds a cardinal, blue jay, and catbird make.
I find joy in watching the annual blooming sequence of flowers in my backyard in spring.
I like to stand and look at the yard when all the leaves have been raked.
I get excited when someone brings me a cold drink while I’m mowing the lawn and a hot drink while I’m shoveling the snow. I get angry when they forget.
I can sit and stare at the ocean for hours without swimming or doing anything else on the beach.
I check the oil and fluids in my car before long trips.
I walk around the car to check for damage before I get in to drive.
I take secondary roads and always look for an alternate route while driving. I don’t care if it takes longer, I like to keep moving.
I fill up my gas tank before the warning light comes on.
I read the prices of gas on the signs as I drive by and begin thinking about how much it used to cost.
I curse out all the stupid people who endanger my life on the roadways of New Jersey.
I talk about where I was and what I was doing when historical events took place in my lifetime.
I don’t remember people’s names but I do remember where they are from.
I am disgusted by poor service in a store or restaurant.
I enact personal boycotts of stores, businesses, and restaurants with poor service and rude help.
I check the labels to see where things were manufactured. I have given up on exclusively buying American made.
I don’t care what other people think about me and get annoyed when others suggest that I should care. I often say things like “they don’t pay my bills”, “they don’t know me”, and “I could care less if I ever saw them again”.
I let the phone ring and only pick it up after the person begins leaving a message on my answering machine. This only happens if I need to talk to them, or feel like talking to them, or if I actually like them.
I often think about my hometown and talk about making a trip to visit there. But I never do.
I see cousins and comment on how old they look.
I miss my sisters but never call them and I don’t let them know I’m thinking about them.
I think about my grandparents and wish they were still alive.
I think about my father and all the things I wish that I would’ve said to him and all the things I wish that I had done with him.
I sometimes recall kind things that my mother did for me and think about how she wasn’t so bad after all.
I don’t watch television every night. I don’t have a favorite weekly program. I don’t know what’s on.
I rarely watch the entire football or baseball game. I don’t know the standings of the leagues and divisions.
I barely follow basketball and hockey anymore.
I don’t know what times my college teams are playing or what channel they are on.
I began listening to Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra lately. I am also quite fond of Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson and Bluegrass music.
I look forward to reading a good book and don’t hesitate to go to bed early.
I don’t wear an earring anymore and I don’t spike up my hair with gel anymore either.
I started combing my hair the way I did when I was a boy.
I look in the mirror and see more white hairs in my beard and head than dark ones.
I noticed that my eyes have black circles under them and have been looking a little puffy.
I see a picture of myself and say, “Wow, I look like somebody’s Dad!”

TUESDAY NIGHTS ON TEXAS AVENUE

In those days a dime made you a phone call
in a phone booth and it ran the clothes dryers.
Tide and bleach are what you washed with.
Ashtrays stood on pedestals every few yards.
He smoked fat El Productos, she smoked Vantages.
Molded plastic seats hooked in a row to a bench,
lemon yellow, baby blue, pea green, strange
tints of basic colors, dated now as we look back.
Colors like the Chryslers, Buicks, and Pontiacs
lined up on the other side of a painted window.
An evening breeze of the docks pulled the smell
of onions, oregano, oil and vinegar into the
doorway of the Laundromat from the subs
being built next door at the Market for folks
from Philly who called them damn good hoagies.
A great place to pick up Tastycakes, a cold RC,
a Bulletin, an Inquirer or a Cape May Star & Wave.
And when I sat, waiting with my drawing tablet,
I saw two people happy together, my grandparents,
smiling, laughing, remembering as they folded sheets
hot from the dryer. Working systematically, smoothly,
to make a perfectly folded pile of linens to pack up
and take back to their little apartment at the Shore.
Being just eight years old, I thought folding sheets
must be what only happily married people do together.

ALARM CLOCK

How times have changed for me,
each morning the Blackberry plays
the song “It’s a Great Day to Be Alive”.
I’ve set it this way as a little prayer to
begin another hectic day and to remind
me to be thankful to be able to walk out
of bed and get ready for work once again.
My wife says I ought to change the song,
"You won’t like it anymore, if you hear it
every day", and I just laugh and tell her
that she should know me better than that.

NATURAL BORN KILLER

For a week, he sat on my chair listening to
scratching under the front porch steps and
when it’s in the twenties outside, little animals
try to come in to eat, to get warm, to survive
the harsh January weather of a Jersey winter.

My wife says it must be a chipmunk, the ones
we always see scurrying around in summer.
But the cat and I think it’s got to be a mouse.
Early this morning, I’m up before everyone else
and I hear that old cat running around the house
banging into furniture, batting at the curtains,
scampering in short bursts through the kitchen.

And when I decide to check it out, I find him
sitting calmly, staring at the lifeless gray body
of the mouse, and my cat looks disappointed
that the game is over, not knowing he’s made
his first kill after nine years of never going
outside and always eating the same dry pet food.

Instincts from thousands of years of mouse catching
were summoned this morning and to think he did
it without having any claws on his front set of paws.

HOLDING HANDS

is awkward now, for the both of them,
out without their son, she complains
about how her joints ache, how his
wedding ring hurts as they hold hands.

They keep on going, thinking about
how they used to always walk like this.
From the corner of his eye, she looks
like that young girl he found in college.

But they’re both older now, changed.
White hairs on his chin far outnumber
the brown, the red, the blonde ones.
They keep walking, into another bookstore.

photo- Flicker http://www.flickr.com/photos/rozzie/274804266/

MY WORST FEAR

Afraid of working for thirty years
and finding out at a doctor’s office
that I’ve got some incurable disease.
Pancreatic cancer like my grandmother
or Lou Gehrig’s disease like Cousin Eric.
A stroke, skin cancer, massive heart attack
in my easy chair one Tuesday afternoon
watching CNN or The Weather Channel.

Afraid of not getting to travel the world, never
seeing the Eifel Tower, The Great Wall of China,
Egypt’s pyramids, a soccer game in England.
Afraid I won’t see my son begin his life or
if I don’t live long enough to meet his wife
and kids or afraid I won’t be around
long enough to take them to all the places
I went with him when he was a young boy.

Afraid to know that I won’t be remembered
by too many people as time keeps moving on.
Afraid of not waking up one night, dying from
sleep apnea and my wife would have to deal
with big dead me. I wouldn’t want her to have
to tell my son, Come up here son,say goodbye,
your father is gone, have a moment with him
before I call the rescue squad to take him.

And with all this thinking of myself, my selfish thoughts,
I think about one day having to bury my wife or son,
this is truly my worst fear, a thousand times more.


*Ideas for this were sparked at a NYC writing workshop with Denise Duhamel after she shared with us the poem of the same title, My Worst Fear by Cyn Zarco. I let it sit,pecked at it a bit,then polished it. LL