my hair is falling out and it's not even
mundane male pattern baldness,
I can't chalk it up to old age.
my hair is falling out, handfuls at a time.
the line at my part has become a white slash
yes, I'm freaking out
I'm too young for this, o lord
please make my hair grow back.
my hair is falling out and it's a
good thing I have that gold ring on
my left hand so he won't leave me.
although he may be bald, he
did not fall in love with a bald
woman, even if she does have
I hear them laughing, now done
with officers' business, they uncork
whiskey and scotch, I hear the clink of
glasses and loud voices.
even the old one, the Jewish gentleman,
tells raucous stories sprinkled with
words I never could have imagined
coming out of his mouth
(except in his former drunken youth),
the other Jewish grey-hair lapsed into
speaking in a Scottish accent and
they exchanged stories of Nairobi
slums where one can rent a motel room
by the hour, not the day.
cautiously, I opened the door to
go downstairs, seeing empty liquor
bottles strewn about the table, feet up,
paperwork long done, they will
soon be asleep,
no one tires of cash slipping out of an envelope.
cash for the spending on something frivolous,
a birthday present
it has a aura, a special karma when it drifts
to the floor, no matter the amount,
$1, $5, $10, $100.
I can stop at McGuckin Hardware on the way home and browse
tens of aisles of no matter what with my $30 burning
in my pocket.
I settled in for a long look in housewares
and settled on glass latte glasses, the ones that keep
your coffee warm and your beer cold.
I had bought these for Daniel for Christmas
and had wanted them every since.
the doorbell rang
it was night
i was upstairs
who could it be so late
at night, in the darkness
i was alone.
as i pulled the curtain away from
the window, i saw the rear light of
a bicycle receding from the door
i called out to my son
it was dark and cold
he came in, we embraced
we ate the rest of the
and drank the last of a
bottle of red wine.
we yawned, i opened the
door and i watched the
rear light of the bike recede
into the distance
i went upstairs to turn
out the lights and
get ready for bed.
my belly full of wine and
there is a price of admission
for relationship, you have look for the
best and ignore the rest.
she told me this today
but i'd never heard this,
i lost more hair today,
leaving a large pile on the examining
table at the dermotologist,
if he didn't believe me before
he did now,
i wandered out, scrip in hand.
he wandered into the next exam room
thinking the same thing,
there is a price of admission to
have a relationship.
Otherwise you will find yourself
in the dark.
tonight's poem will be written tomorrow
when the moon is lingering overhead and
her footsteps are crunching along icy lanes.
she will have counted each footstep and
noted every heartbeat.
even her nap will have been quantified.
tonight she is too tired having dissected
French verbs and idiomatic expressions
je suis ton petit papier,
I am your special one
even in neglecting to write today's poem
tonight, tomorrow will arrive after
the frozen moon has disappeared over the
I will awaken in the dark.
He reminds me of you,
your slim millennial body
encased in shiny raw intelligence,
so fragile, you are not fooling me with
your bravado, your degrees, your
brutal capabilities that have no
your heart, so delicate and refined,can
be breached, we know this as she walked
away and blood flowed across the
he went back to that office to admit
his truth, and her's, life is wrenchingly lonely.
is your life lonely behind the raw bravado
do you cry before you go to sleep
(The quote is from Eliot, a character on the series "Mr. Robot")
car tires crunch and whirr at 65 mph
too fast to think as the dog circles in her
prescribed circle to fall asleep,finally her
head settling onto the armrest after
gazing at me dolefully.
what am I doing in her seat,
up front the conversation circles
from faculty applications to temperature sensors
my mind is on humidity sensors and whether
the house is burning down.
the night is snow packed, the roads icy
and slick, we drive through the night
in this metal canister, three of us and,
no one ever listened so carefully
nor did I ever listen back with such attention,
he and me, the movement of our mouths
matched, in immaculately metered motions.
we danced to the same rhythm,
this little baby and me.
we certainly knew each others thoughts
at the highest levels, exchanging ideas
on Sartre, Camus and Betty Friedan,
as his mother pondered career and motherhood.
they will talk later, mother and baby
and in their perfect dance, will figure
it all out.
I'm sure of it.