Belief

Last year was the last year

my son let me believe that he believed

in Santa Claus. We suspected he'd known.

He's a smart kid, logical, and wouldn't

be bullshitted for long. The real disappointment

is his disappointment that we are all complicit

in perpetuating this ruse. After all,

if we'd lie about this, what else is a lie?

Religion? Democracy? the promise that you can 

be whatever you want to be when you grow up?

We got a live tree again this year, a Fraser fir

that smells like a childhood Christmas.

My son and I set up the model train

encircling the trunk. I'm not sure

his heart was in it. Perhaps he's still 

disenchanted, I thought, as he raised the lever 

bringing the small locomotive to life.

Then he blew the whistle and smiled at me,

his face illuminated by strings of lights,

a glowing star high above.  Belief, or not

it will soon be Christmas morning.

Ride Along

An Oven Algorithm

She is having her new oven delivered today,
and confides that it is an exciting, if not
emotional time.  She has spent 50 years
with the old one and fears she may cry
when they finally take it away.

I have never owned an oven, or anything
for that matter, for 50 years.  Despite that,
I try to sound sympathetic and empathize,
even though I find it difficult to wrap my mind
around a relationship of that length.

As the phone goes quiet for a moment,
I wonder if there is an algorithm
to determine the average bowls of soup, or
pierogies prepared by a Polish grandmother
over the lifespan of her oven.

She and I simply have a different measure
of time.  She is able to use major appliances
in her calculation.  I will need another 50 years
to understand loss to the degree at which
she has experienced it.

Teaching the Uneven Distribution of Wealth to the Children of the Great Recession

"What is the phrase to describe the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer?"  I asked in review of concepts related to the collapse of the '29 economy and causes of the Great Depression.

"Life." he mumbled from the front row, sarcastic if not somewhat defeated.

I found myself simultaneously depressed and impressed with his analysis of current economic conditions.

I smiled at his answer, decided then that there was little I could teach these kids about an economic downturn that they didn't already know.  I was now in the practice of providing them with a new vocabulary with which to describe their lives.

Indictment

My white cat is staring at me again.

He was just outside and his paws 

are still cold. His look is an accusation.

It's the second week of November

and there's snow on the ground.

He carries his judgement

in front of the heater vent

and I feel unnecessarily guilty.

He has a bath as he warms himself

and his accusation softens.

Now he is looking at me again.

He wants to go back outside.

A Lesson on Armistice Day.

In class today we read aloud
"In Flanders Fields"
eyes closed, imagining
bodies beneath poppies.

Every child in class
raised a hand to indicate
a family member
serving in the military.

My grandfather in Vietnam.
My Dad in Afghanistan.
They told me these things
with the delicate balance

of sorrow and patriotism, an image
in their minds of far off Belgium
"in Flanders fields
where poppies blow."

The afternoon before five months of cloudy weather.

Acorns and the temperature

have conspired to make barefoot

in my backyard impossible.

Migration

Bachelor buttons bloom

blue by the thousands

along the Pennsylvania turnpike.

They remind me of my grandmother

who lets them grow in driveway cracks

despite their status as a weed.

When she was a few years old

her immigrant parents moved from Massachusetts

for the factories of northern Ohio.

As she sped through Pennsylvania,

she looked out a window

at bachelor buttons by the thousands

seeds blown in a swirl of wind

toward a driveway somewhere

distant in the future.

It's about time we went into the studio to record this shit.

Some kid told me he'd seen a picture

of me standing on a countertop.

I smiled. You cannot believe everything

you see.

We should record an album together,

call it "Companionable Silence." Listeners

will find it strangely satisfying.

You see,

like a lot of people, I'm tired

of a lot of things like people who stand 

on countertops for comedic effect.

 

On days we learn to lose.

The more we tried to win,

the less likely it became.

That's the way it seemed

anyway. Don't get me wrong,

there were small victories

like "no one got hurt" and

"at least it didn't rain."

The days were beautiful,

those crisp early October

mornings of dewy grass,

mad sunlight in treetops

just beginning to scarlet.

I will always remember

the flight of the ball

over a goalkeeper

and into the side netting,

then the boy's outstretched arms

as he ran in celebration

into afternoon sun.

Sometimes that's got to be enough

a small victory

in a series of defeats.

The Graduate

The little boy from down the street stopped over this evening.

He stood as tall as my hip with eyes like a river at night.

I squatted down, extended my hand, and introduced myself.

We found out we've got the same name so smiled for a moment.

I asked him how old he was, guessing 4, and he bluntly stated 13.

You look young for 13.  Where do you go to school?

I can't remember the name of that place, but I just graduated.

He said this with such pride and sincerity, I had to believe him.  Congratulations.

What are you doing? he asked.  Well, I'm watering the tomatoes.

Why?  So they can grow, and we can eat them.  I would like to help,

he said with the seriousness of someone offering assistance in the wake of tragedy.

Of course, I told him, and we finished with the tomatoes, then went to the strawberries

which, with wide eyes, he told me he enjoys.  We then discussed the benefits of fruit.

When we finished he went home.  The next day I was getting ready to leave.

As I walked through the terrible heat of my front yard, the graduate raced over.

He stopped directly in front of me and took both of my hands in his own.

It was as if he had travelled a great distance to meet a long forgotten friend.

He turned the rivers of his eyes to mine and paused an earnest moment

before saying, We must water the flowers.

Elegy

We are on borrowed time,

and it's not often when we know

last days as they are happening.

We've known one another for 15 years now,

since the 3 for a dollar necktie sale

at the Cleveland Street Salvation Army

the summer before I started teaching.

I wanted to look professional.

You and your friends wanted to help.

They're gone, and now I've noticed

you're a bit frayed at the knot,

kind of like I feel when standardized test

week approaches. You know what I mean.

So, what have we got left my old friend?

a lecture on the causes of the Cold War?

some discussion of Kennedy conspiracies?,

perhaps one last reading of "Letter from

a Birmingham Jail."  All in all, and I hope

you'd agree, it's been a good run.

Whatever we've got left, let's make it count.

August

My son and his friends have been playing

a hybrid of kickball and baseball in the front yard again.

They've spent

the better part of the last 5 minutes

(and much of the summer)

arguing whether a neighborhood kid

was safe or out at second.  

No resolution seems forthcoming.  

Two fielders are near

to both rage and exhaustion.

My son is close to tears.  

One boy gets on his bike,

rides to the corner, then back.  

Screams of complaint continue.

He rides away again.  

A shaggy blond kid sits 

in a patch of dirt that serves as pitchers' mound.

He is normally a peacemaker.  

He holds his face in his hands.

School begins on Monday.

When they look back,

these will be 

the greatest days of their lives.

the view from a seat on the first base line.

In a mild summer the garden flowers flourish.

The daisies near our porch have

really brought their game this year.

The goddam daisies!

BANG !

Like a gunshot

our streetlight goes black,

then hums like a secret.

As he waited his turn this evening, I experienced the definition of patience.

Our white cat sits stone still

as two teenage rabbits play games

with which he is unfamiliar.

After which, I smile back, not having the heart to mention that I dabble in atheism.

She introduces herself

with the vacant, glazed-eyed assurance

of the terribly religious.

Nothing

There was a day this week

of glorious nothing.  It may

have been Thursday, but I 

cannot be sure.

I marked the watering of cucumbers 

as my chief accomplishment.

a bike ride - a glass of ice water

Later, as I sat in my backyard reading,

two city squirrels chased the afternoon.

a peanut butter sandwich - an idea on paper

A white cat and I sat in conversation

on the lawn for an hour or so.

the sun was there - a breeze from the north

In the evening we played 

soccer, kicking a ball together,

as the tree line measured time

until darkness.

A Discussion of Hunger in Sandbridge, Virginia.

Two crows in the sand

at the high water mark wait

for fish to come ashore.

Summer Storm

I get the feeling

the neighborhood kids

are turning against me.

Tonight, thunder

to the north

over Lake Erie.

All signs seem ominous,

a flash of lightning,

death of sunflowers.

There are arguments,

a disconnect, an

over-saturation.

These rain barrels

overflow in a downpour,

puddle on our lawn.

I sent the kids home

an hour ago sensing a

fistfight, a summer storm.

He doesn't give a shit about that.

I saw Tim walking down 

East Broad Street shirt open 

in swim trunks smoking a cigarette.

It was 88 degrees in the shade.

I nodded a hello, and he said

It's hot as f#€%. with a maniac smile.

Over the top of his shades

he was eyeballing backyards

for pools to hop, puffing smoke.

The rec pool's too crowded

and the only thing that makes a swim

better than a hot day

is an over the sunburned shoulder

fear of getting caught, even though he says

he doesn't give a shit about that.

I looked back as he turned

through a side yard to a stockade fence

at a house with an empty driveway.

Ice Cream Party

On several occasions

my wife has given my son

and the neighborhood children

ice cream with various toppings -

sprinkles, candies, whipped cream.

We gave a stray cat tuna once.

He meowed, "I love you,"

(I swear it), and never left.

Every week he brought us gifts -

dead birds, squirrels, rabbits.

There are many kids around here.

They love ice cream like a cat

loves birds and tuna.  My wife has

become their unquestioned leader.

They will kill on her behalf.

I'll call you after Brazil.

Hey man, I'm sorry

I missed your call.  I just

got the message.  I think

I was watching Ivory Coast

get dumped from the tournament

on a soft P.K. for the Greeks,

though it may have been when

the Uruguayan striker

bit his Italian opponent,

or a Swiss hat-trick.

Today the United States battle

the Germans at noon.  Insert

a lame WWII reference here.

The game is crucial and I'm sick

with nerves and blind patriotism.

As you can see I've been very busy.

The World Cup ends in 2 

and a half weeks.

I'll call you back then.

Dearest Lily.

Lily!  We have passed the longest

day, so now must lament the shortening.

The late afternoon sun is ours, Lily,

until the tilt of the earth foresakes us.

All Stars (another poem about Little League)

Within a week of the longest day

the coaches gather to select the All-Stars,

who will later be noticeable by the angle

of their cap, and the degree

of their 10-year-old swagger.  

The parents know the bulk of the chosen

before the event takes place.

There is, for instance, the kid who looks

seventeen despite his birth certificate,

the prodigy who just might be

Shoeless Joe reincarnate, along with

that tiny boy with a terrible fastball,

and the kid who hits everything.

These guys are unquestioned.

It is the fringe players that spark

a murmuring of discontent

among those in the bleachers, like

That kid's had 1 hit in the last 5 games.

or He's walked more batters than

his total strikes thrown. but his dad's

friends with Joe's dad.   Ohhhhh.

And so it takes the shape of political scandal 

as adults impose their seedy world

on the ball fields of children.

On the night of the longest day

the players will take the field once more

with their home teams.  The All-Stars

are ready for tournaments tomorrow, while

the other boys will step into the batter's box

with their usual blend of confidence and hope

mixed with a deceptive sense of loss,

perhaps an inkling of regret.

With the smell of kid-sweat and

fresh cut grass in his nose,

a fringe player who didn't make the cut

cracks a hot single through the infield 

and rounds first.  Stepping back to the bag

he rests his hands on his knees and

hears the applause one last time.

He hasn't told his parents yet,

but this will be his last game.  He's tired

of the bullshit.  He may be 10 years old,

but he's not stupid.  So, as the sun sets

on his small town, the boy readies himself

for that first stride to second base,

for that first step into retirement.

Little League Lessons

      I. History

My son singles in an 8 pitch at bat, and later

returns to the dugout to tell me, "I stole home

Jackie Robinson style."

      II. Arithmetic

"It's not supposed to be math, it's

supposed to be fun," argues a 9 year old as we discuss

runs to the mercy rule in the 3rd inning.

      III. Language Arts

Through careful deliberation, we determine

the 3 most painful words on a summer night,

without question, Hit By Pitch.

Something Fantastic

The windows have fogged,

become almost milky with drops

of rain.  Looking out at this

morning without sunrise

is like discovering

a half-formed idea,

something fantastic

like a way to pair empty homes

with homeless families.

It won't come into focus

as the runoff pools in the gutters,

flows oily toward the river valley.

the day we learned our cat was lactose intolerant.

I'd woken up several times through the night,

then finally at 5:30 with a dull headache.

I was turning 42, which felt like a Tuesday,

a half-full cup off coffee and a day of work.

We waited for it to rain.

Clouds came and went, then came back again,

but thunderstorms refused to materialize.

Our black cat slept exhausted on the humid porch

having evacuated his bowels repeatedly.

A Statistical Analysis

According to a recent report
my state ranks number 4
in methamphetamine arrests.


I will assume the stats are comparable
for drug related dental problems,
and basement lab explosions.


Though more difficult to measure,
I'd bet on a slight correlation in
feelings of fleeting invincibility and


corresponding crushing despair.

Rectangles

I am preparing myself

for an empty moment

when my sole concern

will be the maintenance 

and watering 

of colorful rectangles

in the backyard.

When the wind blows it all away. (for my friends)

A terrible wind roared for hours overnight.

In my last bits of sleep I dreamt 

of cartoon trees falling.  Our forest

collapsed around me.

I awoke to wind like a freight train.

I lay there, unsettled, watching the ceiling.

I'm afraid of lots of things, but the wind

is right up there with war, poverty, and

never having a chance to see you again.

Lazarus

In old industrial neighborhoods in cities west of Cleveland

every 3rd or 4th house sits vacant, and yet red brick factories,

long cold, have begun to puff stale smoke again, a resurrection

like hand-rolled cigarettes of machine shop workers

from the '40s & '50s returned to haunt.  Dave told me today

they can't find enough skilled manufacturers to fill jobs countywide.

I think he's full of shit, but he's got me thinking about unemployment,

about Lazarus of Bethany stepping from his tomb, walking down

East Bridge Street, maybe bumming a smoke on his way to work.

Haiku Freight Train #12: Rivals

sunshine and snow melt --

Dave's dog chews on his own leg,

then chases my cat.

Haiku Freight Train #11: Smoke

Black cat on a railing --

young man on his porch, looks to

blue sky, lights a smoke.

Haiku Freight Train #10: Prayer

Pin oak creaks terribly

in a gusty spring west wind.

Those who would pray, pray.

Haiku Freight Train #9: Youth

Calling from a distant

somewhere, a train whistle,

sunset, and my youth.

Haiku Freight Train #8: Snow Cat

White cat on my lap,

his paw on my shoulder.  

Outside a spring snow.

Haiku Freight Train #7: Labor

I worked the night shift

stocking beer, fell asleep

in the cooler once.

Haiku Freight Train #6: Marriage

I say, I love you.

She smiles and says, Shut up.

Sunlight spills between us.

Haiku Freight Train #5: Buddha

The seated Buddha

neck-deep in backyard snow, calm

despite his misfortune.

Haiku Freight Train #4: Supernatural

Third floor restroom

is locked, but there's no one

in there.  It's sinister.

Haiku Freight Train #3: Connections

Found a picture of FDR

in a book of O'Hara poems,

smiled, and thought of you.

Haiku Freight Train #2: Snow

Late winter snow

tumbles onto itself when

I slam the car door.

Haiku Freight Train #1: Principle

The market advertised
Pork Butts!  I laughed
out of general principle.

Ain't nothin' goin' on but the rent.

Dave told us

about a family of 4

in a duplex on Maple

without heat and water.

They used the oven

to avoid hypothermia.

A drug dealer

the cops busted

in the house next door

had his bills paid in full.

I try not to ask

too many questions.

practical solutions to modern problems.

Follow Your Dreams

In a dream last night I met Ben Folds.  

I took his picture as he played Jackson Cannery

with a small band near a doorway

at Jamie's Flea Market.

After the tune we had a laugh or two

talking to the antique coin salesman

before we had an Italian sausage sandwich.

I'm thinking about going to Jamie's Saturday.

You might see me between the baseball cards

and comics, just past the used furniture

and books.  I'll be the guy with a camera

following his dreams.

Another Poem About Winter and Windows

I've stood at the window several times

this morning to stare at the murderous cold,

as it blows across the few inches of snow

on our driveway.  The white cat asks to go

outside, but then stands in the doorway,

blinks furiously before returning to nap.

Outside a bird screams a terrible warning.

I will go out there to shovel, despite

having nowhere to go.  I know I said

I needed a visit to the library, but

that's not really an obligation.  I think

I'll wait to see how I feel about it later.

For now, I'm going to take a look

out my window.

Edginess

Snow blows beautiful
chaos against windows,
piling on sills.

Unable to venture outside,
even for a few moments on the porch,
our cats inch closer to outright madness.

They've begun to attack each other
in attempt to take the edge off.
It is unsuccessful.  Edginess remains.

I fear that my wife and I are not far behind.
I have begun to pace with my cats
room to room, inventing topics

of conversation, avoiding any discussion
of the aforementioned snowstorm
as it terrorizes the neighborhood.