here again some

where new and old is Rome altogether.
observing what is
and making note;
thus comes poetry out of this city.

took a cab across town to the district Parioli,
Fiat called me for a recording session.
later on a bus ride home a baby cries.
after a few minutes i move to the rear.

and cries relentless, poor child
it is twenty minutes to the termini
and cries.
voluntarily out early i transfer buses.

there is an alert.
a white medical van goes by
as siren calls i’m here, make way.
the van labeled as carrying blood and organs.

on then off another bus again
at Largo Argentina.
a place i know well,
though hardly time to look around

a third bus takes me for a few blocks,
and then walking now near home
i stop, because it was necessary.
had to to look into the hole.

men were working on the long deep ditch.
speaking with a co-looker i mention
the building right there
was a workshop of Michelangelo

see the faint painting on the side that his students did
the workers were seated, resting for lunch, listening
i said to my co-hole- looker that only men
stop to look in the holes.

one of the hole workers heard
and added, not only men,
also children always stop
to gaze in the hole.

so it is that good work,
as with poetry,
begins with the question:
what is down there?

and this time i do think
for sure, rightfully so, there may be
something most interesting hidden for ages from mankind
down there in that hole.

spoke with five

spoke with five people in a church,
actually more a museum these days.
we and the they were in repose,
a respite from touring Roma.

bright, able and intelligent,
a refreshing splash revitalizing the reality of
this start of the second decade
of the twenty-first Century.

calm, quiet, sharp, all spoke observantly,
we would have taken them home right now;
course they’ve gone now, we lost ‘em.
what remains is spirit of rekindled hope for the future.

on a stairway

on a stairway all the way
up the side of the house
is it redwood? i think so.
definitely spongy in places near the top

then i climbed on the outside of the rail
found a box with odd electrical parts
and a scrap of rumpled paper
with a handwritten note

that said, “.83 per kilowatt hour,
123 dollars for a month.“ could this be?
or is it solely an invention of dream
and possibly of poetry?

bus drama

from the prime first seat i see
an old woman outside the door as it closes, she doesn't see me,
looking up she is mouthing pleading words to the driver
while he sits comfortably aloof looking straight ahead

she is manically asking help from God,
desperately imploring the baby Jesus
hands on the wheel the driver is warm in his glass booth
the elderly woman outside the door shakes her fist

i’m in the middle nearly between them
what should i shout - Hey, Whoa, Wait?
unable to quickly form helpful words
it all unfolds a breath before the bus departs

i write
i read
don’t request them
then look for comments anyway
do the necessities
keep things in order as best i can
my sister had a stroke recently.
also, and this also is an integral part of the whole;
i wrote my wife today and she agreed,
it is all passing so quickly.

this is the sixteenth day

how problem was found
and how it resolved
began with desire
to take a bus

the tobacchio man said sold out
no more November bus passes.
i settled for a one week pass,
paid sixteen euro.

which week of the two remaining will i ride?
the week begins when i punch the ticket.
should i ride the week in the middle
leave a few days on both sides?

sixteen euro is what i pay
for a leisurely full month fare.
i was fifty feet away
when i thought about it

then i went back
and exchanged the week pass
for sixteen individual tickets.
that will serve me well

there are shadows

set one two three
there’s a street light bright
showing through a tree bare for winter
cast upon the neighbors white garage

seen from our window
any dark November night
the large flat garage white
is engraved by intricate branch shadow

sharp and still as a pencil drawing
until breeze begins limbs clawing
creating overgrown powerful tentacles
bulging in menacingly creepy proportions

industrial music please

the industrial music on TV Oh Boy
during wake-up early Saturday morning off-hours
when no sane sponsor would pay a dime to advertise
ergo there was nothing decent to view

we watched until it made us tap our feet in joy
to see new clean shiny bottles passing by,
row on row, on conveyor belts,
endless bottles sans commentary

gleaming bottles galore
whoa, wha’cha watchin’ zombie kids?
watching bottles
passin’ by, nothing to talk about

only that music and bottles on parade
you have to have loved it, or hated it or been mesmerized
here they come empty, watch ‘em now
then full, then lidded – get the lids on will ya

sometimes you tuned in and saw the end
when all those full bottles were
boxed, packed, trucked, then sped away
all to that appropriately endless industrial music.

11-11-11 punkin house on a hill

ohio man grows largest pumpkin
on charming small hill
dries it out
scrapes inside clean

crafts bed, cabinets,
does plumbing, then electricity
paints interior, decorates
even adds a fireplace

hangs up curtains and lives in it
falls asleep with fire roaring
burns whole place down.
gets out alive




now years later the local beer joint fills
every Saturday eve when they leave the hills
to buy him ale
and to hear this tale

smoking in the dark

lights out blackness nearly
yet creeping neon proclaims the inner city
leaking into our unlit hallway
softly dusting a residual hint of glow

i open the door a crack
to see illusive curling smoke,
then close the door
welcoming the envelope of total dark.

even the glow of a puff
stealthy falls away
silent in the mystic lure
of golden tobacco.

ah, but i know the way
to idle swirling dream,
the light that follows spark
when smoking In the dark.

the leaf in the pond

it leapt from tall sugar maple
semi-circled in light breeze,
that leaf briefly glided
then came to pond landing.

large, twisted nearly into a great U
floating flat and steady on one side,
swan proud high on the other
as gusts took it round

making short lines in light wind ripples,
then circles, quickly here,
spin turn there, zipping
like a curious swan on the lookout

then swung about like a four master
in queen’s colors, my beloved red to yellow
swashbuckling dry dinosaur,
remnant of parting golden autumn.

box of cereal

instead of stopping for a donut,

i’m going to get vitamins, they say.

but what happened?

But What (that’s me), can’t get to the cereal.

pulling, twisting, chewing,

all the old tricks

nothing budges the indestructible plastic package.

finally i use some scissors.

then, pouring  those golden flakes,

expecting toys and games,

i see that nothing special drops,

only flakes;  ok - so they’re kinda golden.

yet they look like plain flakes to me.

oh, my how times have changed.

there isn’t even a toy rocket

or whistle in the bottom of the box.

still i guess it’s okay to eat cereal,

mainly cause i know deep down

it  may be better for me

than a  dunkin’ donut.

so let us say

for the wind and the rains

the mountains and plains,

for robins, pigeons, red birds,

fish in the sea and high above eagles,

for waving sweet corn, carrots and round melons,

the fruits and vegetables,

meat and potatoes and little bugs,

for dust and the dirt, ice and rust,

in sunshine, strong winds

on starry nights, hefty ocean waves,

first morning light, moonless thunder

and during seasonal change,

for gone cowboys and Indians,

war paint, wagons and horses and buffalo

the bankers and doctors, kind women before us

the trees again, the breeze again,

lawyers, bums, gamblers and dentists, islanders,

pick a card, it’s who we are. to the Chinese,

south Americans, Europeans, Africans, the other ones

mark my word everywhere under the heavens

through clouds and fresh falling water drops

for all these and more, we pray

until do us apart,  until we part anyway,

some day, anyhow, all together  -  amen.

Frogologist

other careers you need credentials and study

more than merely tend and look each day.

too bad it doesn’t pay banker bailout money.

it captured me via strings-free curiosity.

true enough, October cool,

the chill pool is nearing winter

and there on the edge today,

diving down is Shorty Skinny,

no doubt a sleek light green youngster.

ten years i’ve seen them  all,

know well their schedule, summer to fall;

he’ll winter in the icy soup.

son of another home ponder,

count him present

for chill sleep down under.                                   

pond frog score: three home for winter.

Giancarlino remembers

talking to an Italian friend

about a music group from years past,

he said they were two  folk singers, big hits. 

i suggested Chad and Jermey? 

Ian and Silvia? 

finally he remembered, “Peter Paul and Mary”. 

That’s Giancarlino,  so Italian.   

he thought it was one guy,  Peter Paul  and a girl,  Mary.

pond from scratch

since i made this pond

more'an a decade’s passed

so it’s practically natural now.

the frogs think so.

this morning seemed the pump stopped.

couldn’t see it,  couldn’t hear it;

wasn’t any moving water to speak of.

pulled the pump, it was purring.

coated thick with great-green,

though,  pumping away it was;

checked the falls, found it trickled.

heavy  growth  covered the drop.

pulled then threw thick green gobs away,

minutes later all seemed okay;

on a warmer day’ll clean it all for winter,

today it’s late and i’m tired.

tomorrow’s out, heard it’ll rain,

day after’s soon enough for me.

you can’t do everything at once,

heard that said and belive it.

the good news is

two frogs set to winter here.

watched one, for sure, grow from little.

fish are sleeping deeper now.

while above, leaves keep blowing

and i scoop ‘em out of the pond

and wade the yard through red and orange.

as trees are changing differently,

seems definitely an unusual year

that will result, you know,

in the same affect;

for waiting around the corner,

coming soon, is winter.

we the resting

our bed of theater

banner front row center

space over town is evident

full mystic river flows left to right

far train crosses, rattles bridge

as off-left plant rumbles lowly

cue distant car from unknown faraway

birds fly  too late to call, hear wings flapping

we the resting

amid pre-morning

hold thought tight

hallowed be the night

Wonder Bread believer

helped strong bodies eight ways

for about a year

before clever scientists

found four more ways

then Wonder Bread

helped build strong bodies

twelve ways, no kidding.

so why’d they quit?

it’s been fifty years now

and if i don’t hear something soon

i’m going to quit believing

in advertising.

homeland security poetry

okay shoes off.   could be

weapons o'mass destruction in them

so down on da rug boys and girls

and spread ‘em

we followin' orders lookin’.

‘n don’ matter  none 

what ‘scuse  you got,

cause dis b Merica.

 wann’ a ejication?

put  chez  in da army

‘n  learn yez  practico

like  drive a tank n’ shoot

 

while on the other side,

a lesson in how to do life

at the Amish auction.

six  young  boys in a small cart

pulled in a circle for an hour

by a Shetland pony.

while all of them,

boys  as well as the pony,

kept mouths shut

and eyes open

making the circle,

enjoyin’ the go around.

and there’s equipment

to listen to your calls,

an we drive round

and listen in your house

we’ll feed you

hints in the media

and blur you

with delusion

anymore ‘n that

sheep  jus  don’t

gots da need

ta know

when she asked me

when she asked me to turn

off the sprinklers in twenty minutes

i nodded and  noticed the kitchen clock

and then the one in the living room.

they were ten minutes apart.

i began to tell her and she said

“Oh, jack” in that tone, you know which one.

“This is not science.”

“go make a clock then” is what i thought

but didn’t say,

then forgot where i was going with this

so i returned to the spot where i thought it

ever do that?

it usually works  -  to capture forgotten thoughts

return to the spot where you thought it.

this time it didn’t work.

looking out the kitchen window

there on the back of a chair

a squirrel sat intensely

looking in at me.

i had a plan where i was going with this

but  now, before i forget again,

i'd better go out

and turn off the sprinklers.

why i'm not writing everyday

a second summer tooth extraction
this one fractured on a rock
in take-out Chinese food,
kidnee stones, broken toe on my bear pad foot.

and i could be writing poetry
but got distracted.
how’s your summer?

i claim all the trees i see
and the three gulls above
in steady wind just right
that float near still like kites in a photograph

off shore wind
yellow morning sun
seventy eight degrees
still air, no breeze down here

a perfect day just now has begun


(  Note:  I wrote a word incorrectly in the above because in an effort to make more money Blogspot has sold out to a medical information company and alters blogs with difficult to delete site links.  More and more in this Twentyfirst Century it's all about money. )

happy anniversary

Pookashell-With-Kitties-All-Over-It
jumped into the shower
then came out immediately to kill four spiders
and although i was in the other room

yes, i caught hell
for i am The Man
guilty as charged
for as long as we both shall live.

not alone/ conspiracy

been working on this more than a week and can't decide how it really goes, but thought it was time to let it out of the box. i'll decide later.




not alone

everyone feels to be
number one in the universe.
although, not one is truly unique.
not squirrels, frogs, birds nor people;

yet, all living things can touch
the center cog on the wheel of life,
precisely the point
where consciousness is connected.


not alone b.

there are too many of us
for any one to be unique.
yet every squirrel, frog, bird and person
feels to be number one in their universe.

still, all living things can touch
the center cog on the wheel of life
and share consciousness precisely at the point
where we are connected.

what'd i say?

this quiet morning the robin returned
sat at the same spot on the fence
where the other day we had a chat
from the porch i gave the robin whistle

it looked directly at me
hopped one hundred-eighty degrees,
faced the other way
and flew away.

i copied

i copied the two note whistle,
the same as the bird in the tree.
the bird liked it enough to reply
and we traded calls back and forth.

for ten minutes our whistles continued
in changing patterns and pauses.
so now i've conversed with a robin,
yet have no idea what was said.

robinses

set to write good of them, i was,
cause hard workers they are.
first up early, feed the kids.
even give them lessons when they’re out.

always up at dawn, retire by dark.
mid day one'll sail in to sit and stare.
tween times sitting to think about the day,
waiting, staring at me, doing nothing.

then when i mow my heart grows cold against them
for i see the yard torn up here and there where
those hoppy bobbing, worm searching peckers
haven't replaced their divots.

days are like eggs

days are like eggs
some sunny side up
they’re hard, or scrambled
and, thank god,
always a few are
over easy

we live in small town ohio

on the back porch
sipping morning coffee watching
our pet wild squirrel,
not pet really,
call her acquaintance,
who takes peanuts from our hand
and presses her paw on ours
gently, touching the human goodbye
and thanks, as she pushes off.
we’d like to give her fuzz a rub
but she won’t stand for it;
she may be squirrel
but is not nuts.

now high above.
on a taunt electrical wire stretched pole to pole.
there she is comfortably sitting,
relaxing, thirty feet in the air.
then casually turning around

below is our small backyard pond
four hops long and three hops wide
where four large frogs
each on a different pond side
sun on the rocks.

a swooping shadow across my old wooden lab
then a splash in the pond
the first of our two mating ducks arrives.
she climbs out on a rock and twists her head around
to preen her feathers
looking good, feeling good.
he'll be in in a minute.

while practically downtown we are,
traffic here is wildlife.
rabbits i haven’t seen this year.
a large fox just sauntered through our yard;
he’s would have seen them, would eat them.
out front passing deer
are early risers.

plans - revisited

we make our plans
and choose our actions
sometimes based on reality
often times on dreams

the attractions to our suit
can be distractions to the root
not tailored to patterns
that follow the seams

my garden - revisited

my garden today was weed crowded,
a task undone far too long
so that work today, was my purpose
the labor in sun was my song

begin where it needs it the most
do all that you possible can
after a rest on completion,
move forward, and do it again

each part of life is in motion
moving ahead in the flow
your thoughts are merely a notion,
love doing, and not what you know

oil change

bused around eyes open.
needed an oil change, not me, the car.
that sort of service wasn’t what we noticed
before we had a vehicle.

in Rome nothing is easy.
i asked friends, several.
a bus ride took us along likely avenues
found a place, we’ll give it a try.

need oil drained,
the correct new oil put in
and a replacement filter, yet i know
in Rome nothing is easy.

discarded the idea of the place we found
drove out of the city.
found another oil changer
on the old salt road.

the guy was quick, kind and did it right.
when a job is complete i can relax
for it seems, for a while, that
everything in Rome is easy.

four and four

four seated facing four.
an interesting ride
for three others and i observing
enthusiastic constant chatters, as we rode
in an otherwise silent little electric bus.

three were on cell phones talking
in exceptionally loud voices, nonstop.
a fourth looked out the window
no phone, but spoke vehemently
to another someone, unseen.

the future

i'm an old man
and little kids are here in my future.
did i catch up with the future
or did it catch up with me?

a video clip of an Ed Sullivan Show
TV appearance by Buddy Holly
i may have seen live in Ohio
when i was a kid in 1958

i’m watching in 2011
on my computer in Rome, Italy.
the future is here for me.
so i caught up with my future?

little kids have their future ahead,
out somewhere beyond starlight.
so if i am in my future
what are they doing here?

When old clothes were new - (from sept. '09)

archeologists say
first clothes were made
seventy thousand years ago
more or less

before that? you tell me
what’d the cave man wear
sticks and clam shells?
maybe dinosaur skins

now in a cave in the Republic of Georgia
archaeologists have found colored fibers
that indicate the cave that may have been a factory
engaged in producing colorful textiles

found were strings and ropes
dyed fabric yellow, gray and turquoise
and one in pink, twisted together
carbon dated to thirty-four thousand years ago

scientists, not prone to speculation,
estimate that even then the fashion styles
changed every six months
and runway models were skinny



Scientists credited with the above discovery are
Ofer Bar Yosef, George Grant MacCurdy
and Janet G. B. MacCurdy of Prehistoric Archaeology
in the Faculty of Arts and Sciences at Harvard University
Bar Yosef and colleagues have been working in this cave since 1996.

earthrings

worn for ages
tree rings and planet loops around the stars
neither pages nor sages enough
to say what events have been

or to count the multiplying hours.
now don’t cha go thinking cause you have a fancy title
that things are going to happen,
nothings gonna happen.

Piazza Plebiscite where plebeians gathered
or fled, to get away from their boss
or their wives
same matter.

we knew the bar they hung out in at
(i say it that way for the like English speakers).
a photo of the bar could have done it, i didn’t have it,
and it wouldn’t really do, anyway.

in black and white, the brightest color grey
nondescript, old, sparse, gaps in wood.
local tired day end guys at worn tables, one room.
some few drink wine, others beer.

they were medium, halfway into life
one with cane, a couple younger and spirited,
some old, there was the Bar Keep woman
and then M. and me.

half the customers and the Bar Keep are there now i bet.
plenty of drinkers and talkers, light thinkers,
don’t ask me to say i wrote that unless you understand
it’s a tribute. for sure what they were thinking. they were saying.

we had draft beer at a table outside the door.
the church was practically in the bar yard
we watched them parking, with which some had
a hell of a time to get right, never straight.

M. went to a machine
but they wanted too much for so little
so she came back without. then Bar Keep
brought over fried snacks. she had a heart and vision.

i could see across the way Filipo’s pizza
near to opening for the evening
had two white lights
on either side the open door.

it was still late afternoon, very late,
after seven, maybe eight, and still
while i was deciding the real time
the clock on the church tower rang bells seven-thirty

‘s how i know now my report is accurate.
an i made a note.
street lights came on then,
beginning yellow tired.

i asked abut mosquitoes cause the sea’s a few streets over
and Bar Keep said, “here it’s not so bad, just normal.”
but we all know that can be bad enough
when you’re not in the mood to entertain

damn mosquitoes zam blam slam.
but i’m just saying now
cause we’re too early in the season
to have reason to get alarmed.

everything you see, you don’t simply take
you make it what you want
although a gondola ride isn’t romantic
for the guy who rows everyday to make a living

like they make toast

like they make toast
windows closed
on the bus we rode
hermetically sealed

jackets pealed
lady seated by me fanned herself
so hard i thought
she’d lift off

then to an eatery so far from the center
that we looked like locals
where plates twice as full
cost half as much

ate in the shade
and thanks be to God it made
for a real good
sun shiny time

she grips tightly two

long handle wooden spoons
stands over an empty large metal can.
has learned Morse code
and is writing.

quiet, listen.
dit, dah, dit,
dit, dah, dit, dit
ahh, it’s an audio ebook.

return of the love meter

love test - completely accurate short version

question one
has he ever told you
that he’s finished watching
either live or televised sports
and would rather be
shoe shopping at the mall
with you?

question two
if the answer to question one is yes -
did you know he was lying?

question three
what’s for dinner?


Saturday, September 26, 2009
TomC said...
I have only attempted that ploy when maneuvering for more Harley chrome goodies. Emphasis on "attempted"...

Saturday, September 26, 2009
Julie said...
Ha! Ha! I love the poem! What's up with dragging hubby along? I've never understood why women do that.

Sunday, September 27, 2009
Annie K said...
What's for dinner? Frozen lasagna. If hubby can help you make the salads, he passes the test!

Reprise - from feb 09

if i write stories
they won’t be scary
only fuzzy animals in mine
all of them will wink and smile

my happy birds will fly and sing,
joy they’ll carry near and far,
my creatures won’t eat people.
Steven King, wait in the car

saw Nico

saw Nico, told me
he is sad
yet always laughing

sees only shadows
lives alone, has
friends to visit

nearly ninty-eight,
walks like fifty,
talks like thirty-five.

he thinks of the big mysteries
that are not in our hands.
says he's sure all life is poetry.

full day when 65

woke up at nine, i did
shower and dress, coffee and out the door
no one in the building but we
lock it up, catch a bus

wait 45 minutes cause i’m early and prompt
or he’s late, no one knows for sure,
neither of us care
one dental stitch removed in two minutes

walk two clocks and back
for a dental x-ray
full mouth, with empty mouth
so short guy comes in, tells me stand up

and stand still
sticks plastic in my mouth for me to bite
like a bit for a Rex the Wonder Horse
then he is gone, the short guy

i close my eyes
whirring noise
i know what is happening
being completely conscious

this is when entire life zips by
i am playing sand lot ball and swimming
pledge allegiance, practice piano
graduate, get married

they tell me go out and wait
then i get the xray
walk it back to the dentist
two blocks is nothing on a sunny day

other dentist is returning from lunch
i give x-ray to him
saves myself a flight up walk
everyone happy, he was going there anyway

then bus to Pasquali’s
do i want amatriciana or white
with speck and zucca, that’s bacon and squash
son and cook sister convince me to go white

quarto of red wine
pasta is very good
M. had an oh-hum salad with tuna
and effervescent water in a plastic cup

take a small bus home
the driver is whistling
killing me softly with his song
with headphones on

and we’re home again
by three p.m.
mark it down as a full day
when you are 65

on the marble steps

at Chiesa Nuova
1:30 in the sun
afternoon begun
we get away

in roar and soft speak
voices, buses, motorinos erupt city air
between buildings there
on Corso Vittorio

faraway together
Rome February fair weather
taking it in
our vitamin D

then at once the ragazzi start
to depart the sun
leaving the heart
of the city

this pretty mid week
mid day some hug
touch cheeks wave
or simply smile away



Chiesa Nuova means new church, a few hundred years old
mottorini - are motor scooters
Corso Vittorio is a main street through the center of Rome
Ragazzi - means young people

explosion of good time

still in bed
woke to worker’s
voices in the hall.
amid the banter

one called softly, “Jack”
the voice of my dad
only it wasn’t, or was it.
who can tell

though it was enough
to make me smile,
remember and feel warm
somewhere deep

b.

the two guys from Romania
are quiet good workers
the kid, twenty
is a Bugie

in Italian, our common language, i question.
he’s from Bulgaria, they respond
as if that explained his immaturity,
and being consistently noisy.

c.

explosion of good time
we left home
packed for shopping
off in a rush

Esquilino Market they serve
fast with plastic bags,
paper and crowds, trucks unloading,
wooden crates, moving faces and sales

a background of green leaves, no music,
light talk humming like chicadas.
had coffee and a sweet roll
coffee man and his wife recognized us

red egg yoke lady
in good tune
spoke to M. about how to
make a tasty frappe for Carnevale

got two large plantains at another stall
not bananas you know, she said
i hope not, i replied
i'm going to fry one with an egg

a call to alert - make way
for a box-loaded hand cart
a small man
pushing metal on wheels through

many greens, hand cut minestrone,
hot peppers and nuts we bag away
a moray eel we saw but
did not take one home

moves like a city ghost
rides like a bumpy carriage
over cobblestones
our practically private bus

cause our car has found parking
too sweet to vacate
alberto has re attached a side mirror
for some other to scrape off again

and Friday the soggiorno went well
all persons helpful for us to live here
call them kind
Roma loves us again

to better swerve

traffic cops in Rome have special uniforms.
high leather equestrian boots,
white tall helmets like dessert legionnaires.
one stopped our bus in the center of Rome

hopped aboard to hitch a ride
up three stops on Via del Corso.
he was knocking off early,
or had hot shopping to do.

anyway,
viva the good guys.
may they hop a bus
anytime.

to joseph no apostrophe s

an intercity eatery found
when the old worn mechanic
pointed, there’s where to go,
enjoy a buffet spread long and fair

among good people working
it was an honor, a delight mid-day
care taken in particulars,
choose desires well prepared

with no haste, to taste time
and a glass of red wine
can this be Rome
seems like coming home

meant to so verify

morning laundry and coffee
with Texas Bill in attendance.
43 years as a freelance embassy chef.
you’d think he’d have learned his lesson.

now he’s growing a beard
for a Shakespeare play he’s in.
i know he has 18 lines,
he told me 29 times.

we’ll see an early
show if we can stay
up that late hope
they talk fast

hey, so-called every day stuff
also happens in Rome, you know.
but life is a poem anywhere you look
at it skewed with jelly on as i do

pay only

3 euro a week ,
to any Tim phone,
call 'em often,
talk long as you want.

Giacomo changed to Vodafone
so he’s made my list
of whom to call
less often.

i left 44

where 62 was next
at the other post office.
now 73 is up at this one
and my number is 97.

28 potential
customers are waiting.
with 11 windows,
6 are open, more or less.

it was 1890

it was 1890 when Bill was here
traveling Europe by train.
Naples, Rome, then Florence
with horses, Indians and Annie Oakley.

too many large stones and rubble,
and he had wanted to do the
wild west show in the Colosseum.
so they decided to perform right outside.

i know he had a drink at the bar on Via Condotti
on that corner by the Spanish steps,
cause 121 years later i walked over there
and saw the photographic proof

taken there that day in all his glory,
and is still on the wall.
even 12l years ago they called Mr.Cody the name
we know him by - he was Buffalo Bill.

deep searching

m. is reading about
a deep mine in England where
scientists search for dark matter.
world over they are looking.

they need a space
where gamma rays
and cosmic rays won’t penetrate,
kinda like my closet.

i asked her what they are going to make
out of this dark matter
when they finally find it.
she said, “shoes”.