ALLERGIES

In the land of 10,000 class presidents

there is way too much Tuesday night traffic,

too much gossip between the monuments,

and too many blossoms rimming the Potomac.

Smiles scar and stone misquotes our heroes.

Lovers father our twins without us. Resentments

are almost always faxed. And dashes declare peace

is not possible without treaties.

The Defense Department waters its rhododendrons

while jaundiced stars hang in tatters

in dark corners, so 8^th graders can learn

Evil has a name and a number.

Jazz standards caravan around

the Kennedy Center in a failed circle. Liberty

lassos Happiness while History blames

all it's forgotten on ADD.

Please tell me my sinuses will survive the season,

that no more oaths will be uttered facing east,

that bullets can’t kill a dynasty

or murder a king’s dream.

Convince me Night will never shatter again like glass,

that all our spasms and complaints will come to an end,

that we’ll stop swilling our garlic with our gin,

and that gargoyles won’t rain down from the sky.

And persuade me once and for all

that it will be the newborns who will bless the souls

of the wicked as they file into Heaven

like beasts into the garden.

VOYAGE

Phyllis and Roy are in a doorway.

Neither is coming or going.

They are framed within the frame

and the door is only half open,

so there is no portal or a passageway here.

It's more like a place to get stuck in.

They are yelling at each other

arguing, fiercely

about a suitcase, of all things,

which is odd and slightly ironic

because they have just come from seeing

a play called, Voyage, which in part

is about characters who keep missing

opportunities for love,

and who keep asking each other

the same curious question:

“What’s wrong with this picture?”  

which is a question Phyllis and Roy

ought to be asking themselves right about now

but they’re not, because all their attention

is on the damn suitcase, its

broken handles and zippers, torn outer pockets,

how it has been mishandled by careless attendants,

has seen too much wear and tear

from too many recent trips “Down Under,”

and how, given its current condition,

isn't really up for the next big trip,

which is just around the corner - unless

they can decide

which one of them will take it

in to be repaired.

As the audience to this little drama

we know something that Phyllis and Roy don’t:

the suitcase isn’t the issue, it’s a stand-in

for something else, that they,

like the characters in Voyage,

are ill-equipped to talk about.

It is a symbol for something

that they can’t quite face.

So all they can do is what they are doing.

It’s a failure of the imagination, really.

That’s what it is.

If they only had a different symbol,

a parakeet, a bath mat, a juicer,

Phyllis and Roy might just be able to

free themselves from the prison of the doorway

and their petty insults

and put the deadweight and baggage

of their rudderless conversation down,

and, suddenly feeling lighter, would, on a whim,

head upstairs, hand in hand -

the door closing blithely behind them -

to search the sea of cable channels

for, of all things, an episode

of The Love Boat,

where Merrill Stubing and Julie McCoy

captain and cruise director,

hilariously dressed

in white shorts and a perky bob,

allow Phyllis and Roy the opportunity

to laugh

vicariously

and affectionately

at themselves

out loud.

WIPER BLADES

It could be

anywhere

or any time:

Jerusalem

Harlem

Flatbush

the Renaissance

the Summer of Love.

There might be

an ox

a crop

a battle

a crossing

a whaler

a mountain

involved.

The particulars

don’t matter 
much.

The scene’s

darn near always the same

as long as

two good men

one young, one old

one scrappy, one wise

are there

fixin’ to fix a thing

that’s broken, if

ingenuity allows it.

And it usually won’t

‘cause there’s too much

testosterone at stake.

Somebitch, one will say.
Come on, you little bugger, says the other.

Their hands hard at work. 
That’s not right!

 It is right!

No it’s not - its floppin' around like a fish!

And this makes no sense

since they aren’t even fishing.

Try it my way!

Nope, nothin’ doin’.

Working together is not an option.

And that seems to be the point

more than the fixing itself.

Each man must do it

whatever the it is

his own way

and hold steadfast
to that firm ground.

All seems lost

until it happens:

Click!

That magical, musical sound

like the plink of a harp

that a thing makes

despite the commotion

ego and efforting are also making

that tells us, ever so gently and simply:

all is right with the world again.

Neither man knows though

where this clink came from

or exactly how it got there

or which one of them 
brought it about.

What they know is

a thing has found its mate

a gizmos’s in its groove again

a problem’s solved

and this 
they can rally around.

Even if

they are

in a garage

in Pleasant Hill, CA

and the hood and windshield

of a friend’s girlfriend’s car

is between them.

Yes, that little clink

was all it took

for these good men

to end up on the same side

feeling pleased and proud of their work

as if they had just fashioned an angel

with its first set of wings

instead of arming a ‘97 Buick

with a used pair of wiper blades.

.

FUMES

Mother does her nails
while watching Monday Night Football.
By her side I practice
long division with a number 2 pencil.
Scratch, erase, scratch.

The German Shepherd pants 

on the linoleum floor wearing a hexing grin.
Father hangs from the door in traction
reading Forbes with his head in a sling.
Fred Biletnikoff goes long.

Cotton balls and acetone take the polish off.
Howard Cosell's cocksure cadence, a weevil in the ear.
Father slurps his martini like a suckerfish.

The tiny brush lays down the first clear coat.
Stroke, stroke, stroke.
All those little half-moons getting glazed.

And it is then I know my father’s spine is made of taffy,
the dog’s saliva is fish emulsion,
and the number 3 is the remainder 
that will carry me into infinity.