Remember that girl from high school?
the one you called Horseface?
the one you called Lardo?

Remember that girl?
whose tit you grabbed?
whose ass you slapped?

Remember that girl?
the one you sent a dick-pic to?
Remember that girl
the one you photoshopped?

Remember that girl from high school?
the one you called Cunt?

Hello from your surgeon.
Hello from your dentist.
Hello from
your anesthesiologist.

Hello from
your traffic cop.
Hello from your chef.
Hello from
your IRS agent.

Hello from your hairdresser.
Hello from your mechanic.
Hello from
your loan officer.

Hello fellow travelers
from your pilot.


My father’s family was big.
I don’t mean there were lots of them.
Though there were.
They were big.
Stories were written about them.
And yes,
they were tall.
But they were also big.
They were important.
But only to each other.
They were big.
In 1915,
the newspaper wrote about
the family reunion.
The family is big,
the paper wrote.
Of startling girth.
And yes,
that kind of big.
The kind you notice.
And write about for history.
My father was skinny
but his ancestors were big.
And yes,
I look in the mirror,
and I see
the family thighs.


Oh, I am nothing
if not agreeable.
I come from a long line
of non-boat-rockers –
or is it boat-non-rockers? –
I would never want to offend
by the wrong terminology
or even the wrongly tilted
So I listen
to those I love
or at least used to love
and they dump words
that enrage me.
But I will not be enraged.
I summon a smile
but it refuses.
I turn away.
One day I may shout
Wrong! Wrong!
but not today.
Today my boat is still in its mooring.
Moored to my desire
to be loved.
Loved, not at any cost,
but just a little cost
to my integrity.
That’s not so expensive
I think.


I fell asleep by the woodstove
with my book in one hand and my mug of tulsi tea
in the other.
By minor miracle my tea remained upright
and the index finger of my left hand held my place in the story.
I dreamt that I had been writing the best poem I had ever written.
My drifting mind may have been filled with the beautiful words of the book
which was My Brilliant Friend.
That must have been it I think
although the poem as I recalled upon waking
still not spilling the tea
was about McDonalds.
Not moving not my finger in the book not my balanced mug
I tried through a deliberate relaxed concentration
if there is such a thing
to retrieve the lines from the most perfect poem ever
and could not.
I recalled that a few days prior
when buying my mother and me two matching mcdoubles
the server which is a nicer title than cashier for sure
called me Luvvie.
I don’t believe anyone had ever called me Luvvie
and I told the server I hoped someone would call me Luvvie
at least once more before I died.
So besides the melodic words of My Brilliant Friend
the McDonalds lady could also
have been the inspiration for the best poem
I ever wrote while dreaming
which may surpass my conscious poems if I can ever remember
any of them.
But it also may have been french fries.

Swing Time

I was never much for Robert Frost
with all that repetitive stopping by woods bs
but I believe that swinging on birches
might be a good aspiration.

Swinging in general is a good idea.

I like a swing with a leather strap for a seat
that hugs your hips and tells you
it will never let you go
no matter if you are swinging so high
that the big hollow poles that anchor you
jump right off the ground.

My friend Doris was a great swinger
with a swing set in a corner of the yard
the grass worn away by the endless scrape of sneakers.
She’d pump her feet till I swear
she’d do a loop dee loop right over the bar
though my sisters would deny it.

Her swing had metal seats of the kind
that got so hot in summer sun
we’d have to wet them down with the hose
taking a nice long drink too from the old rusty end
and then the slippery metal would trick us
if we didn’t hold tight and throw us off at the top of the arc.

If you can’t be a swinger
be a pusher of swingers.
Doris could push as richly as she swung
with perfection in her placement
her hands never pounding my shoulders
or shoving my ass off the seat
but squarely in the sweet center of my back.

Two years ago I swung through the trees
though not birches Mr. Frost
on the zipline in Jamaica
and I felt again the hands of my friend
propel me
safely into the next breeze.
















I’ll say this much for him
he had a generous bent

If he had any cash at all
he freely spent it.
on himself
on me
on drinks all around

We played the ponies at OTB
if we won
steak and champagne
if we lost
hotdogs and beer
either way we laughed and ate

A fearless gambler
but hesitant swimmer
he refused to explain
miscellaneous random scars
or wear the swim trunks I bought him

At night we danced
to David Bowie
Marvin Gaye
The Police
his hands on my hips
enhancing the sway

But in truth
he watched me more than touched me
and in general
his generosity was with my money

I maxed my charge cards
by summer’s end

Our two best days were
the day we met
stumbling into each other
in drunken lust
and the day towards the end
at the zoo
As relaxed as giraffes
where alcoholic beverages
are thankfully prohibited

The worst day was
sitting on the kitchen floor
near his unconscious wreck
his sleeping face wore a mask of almost kindness
almost enough to deceive me again
I turned away and devised my escape

But given the chance
I might do it again
for the weightless exuberance
of Life Without Plan
And a smile from those green eyes

But of course
now I’ve learned
Every Breath You Take
is not about love
but ownership.


“Let’s talk about fantasies.”
An appropriate topic I suppose
For a drizzly Thursday afternoon.
“Do you have any?-
   Not sexual, I mean, too boring –
Fantasies of a different future?”

Did you know
That some of the grand mansions of Newport
Have been divvied up into condos?
And you could live there?
You could own one-sixteenth of a marble estate
On Bellevue.

Although she always says that when in fact
It is probably not.
“Do you think about it much?
Have you left it just a vague idea?
Have you added the color and shadings?”

Once a week or every so often
I go to real estate pages online
And check the listings
I like the ones with tiny white kitchens
And claw-foot tubs
And a washer and dryer tucked away and
Using up the only closet
And windows in crazy spots because the room
Was never meant to be so small
But with a big old fancy staircase
Shared by the other folks who live alone
In a piece of the palace.
With a cube of a fridge and a two-burner stove
I would walk to the market each morning
To buy only what I felt like eating that very day
No need for a car
I’d bring the dog right down the aisles
Because the shopkeepers would like him
They’d give him a biscuit and say Good Boy
Summer would buzz with decked-out tourists
And there’d be art shows and concerts
And fancy changes to menus
And just when I think I can’t stand the crowds
for one more minute
It would be autumn
And everyone would go.
Quiet again,
I would put on my parka and stroll the beach
And the dog would bark at the seagulls.

“When does a daydream stop being itself
And start being a plan?”

I suppose it is when
You are finally ready
To give up what you already have.




I’ve never lost my love
of personality tests.
Multiple choice in twenty questions
to indicate my Compassion (A minus)
or my Loyalty (D plus)
or my ability or lack thereof
to keep a juicy secret (forever an F).
Back to September ’66
Seventeen Magazine –
They had the best quizzes ever.
I’d tear a sheet from my notebook
and mark my A B C or all of the above
and I’d discover if
my boyfriend was faithful
which would be helpful once I had one
or whether I had what it takes
to join the Peace Corps
or wear Tabu.
I’d toss my answers in the neighbor’s trash.
God forbid my sister should see
that I was a romantic kisser
or that I was reading Seventeen
when I was fifteen
and it was her Seventeen,
which she was.
And now to my delight
I can take my tests every day online.
And learn that my nickname should be
and my aura is Blue
and that though Agnostic
my spirit guide is the goat.
And just today I confirmed a past life
with a fine famous lover.
None other than manly
Clark Gable.
Of course that means that I was
Carole Lombard.
Which all makes sense
because I wrote a story once
where the heroine was Carole with an E.
And though I used to think I had been
Edna St. Vincent Millay
(who was also in a story)
I don’t believe she ever slept with
Dear Mr. Gable.
But to be sure, I took the test again
with my second-best answers.
And Gable again.

So there you have it.








Driving home in almost dark

comfortably overfed

warmed with red wine

at my husband’s suggestion

which is not my Sunday evening habit

but could be.

I look through windows into houses as we ease by

my mother’s Sunday habit  I’ve acquired

yellow lit

sometime television blue

homes always look warm in twilight

one house still brilliant with Christmas

“Lazy” notes my husband.

I prefer to imagine

an absent family member

a son who soldiers overseas

a sister ill in a distant city

the lights stay on


until the family reunites.