No one stays in our house.

Maybe on your birthday, when the candles accumulate,

and the years fit inside spit sealed envelopes.

No one is safe in our house.

Exhaust pipes rattling and valves stop pumping.

Maybe on your wedding day, when you need an arm to hold,

but instead you’re left with lip stained flutes and rice in the cracks of your shoes.

Truth is, she could have stayed, she could have

scrubbed the dirt from the crescents of your eyes.

She could have made you eggs, and signed “xoxo”.

But, no one stays in our house,

leaving with tracks of tipped chairs, bent photographs,

and betrayal like knife to the bone.

It could have been the PhD mangled by Crayola swirls or the boots,

that brought rainwater puddles inside, or

the interrupted dreams.

But maybe it’s because God isn’t fair, safe in his own home,

and we’re all left to straighten the pictures and pick up the chairs.

Quanto Caldo è Il Sole?

This is for you and the way your aged

fingers tapped the steering wheel,

and the wink in the review mirror.

This is for you and the faded palm leaves

twisted on a Sunday.

For the all the kernels popped and paper napkins

turned into bowls.

And the presents that were wrapped too tight.

This is for you and your deep, melodious

rumbling of Italian words.

For the hanging strands of flour and egg

drying on the spindles of unfinished wood.

This is for you and your roses,

for their yellow petals, curled

at their edges

and their unpicked stems.

This is for you.

And the hands that held hers,

and kneaded the dough.

And for your quick release. 

The Unauthorized Autobiography of Me

Last July. It was a Wednesday night. It was windy but the air was warm as it swirled around and hugged my body. My brother and sister were already at the counter but my father walked next to me. The florescent sign hung above our heads streaming artificial light over the parking lot and my father’s graying hair. Children ran around in the damp grass as their parents watched them from where they sat on wooden benches propped up against the decaying brick wall. Mothers and fathers. I kicked the ground and pieces of gravel skidded in different directions. We ordered. A banana split, Italian ice, cherry sundae, a swirled cone. Back in the car we cracked the windows and the music from outside sifted in. A combination of oldies, Motown, and Doo-Wop, the notes filled the parking lot. My brother’s deep cackle nestled in his throat before erupting and filling the front seat. My father laughed quietly next to him, his shoulders rising with each chuckle. The lemon ice dripped from the cup holder, half eaten, and my sister’s hand hung over her knee, sticky and limp as she snored softly. The vanilla and chocolate melted on my tongue and dripped onto my thigh. I sighed and stared out the window with the warm air creeping in.

*

Remember when we met? You had on that goofy sweater vest I tell everyone about and those wire rimmed glasses hung, too big, from your little face. Your teeth were naturally crooked just as they are now even after two attempts at braces. We were assigned to sit next to each other. Our name tags taped and sealed on top of the wooden desks. I walked slowly behind my mother into the room, timid as usual. When we approached our cluster of desks she looked over at yours and laughed. I asked her why and she said it was because of your name; such a big Italian name for a little boy. I started to put my Crayola’s and puppy covered notebooks into my desk. You walked in shortly after that. Not behind your mom like me but close to her side. I dropped my pencils on the floor. It could have been yesterday. I wish it was. I always liked your crooked teeth.

*

An Incomplete List of People I Wish Were On My Emergency Contact List

Diane Keaton

Nora Ephron

Sylvester Stallone

Sarah Jessica Parker

Steven Tyler

Don Rickles

Julia Roberts

Meryl Streep

James Frey

Jesus Christ

Julie Andrews

Mario Batali

Deepak Chopra

Kate Winslet

Joe Pesci

*

I went to my grandparents’ house all the time and I remember everything. The yellow tiles in the kitchen and the tomatoes left on the counter. The hammock hanging in the backyard between two towering trees as it swung slowly. The creaking stairs that lead bare feet into the living room. And the fire illuminating the red velvet of the stockings that hang on the mantle above its flames. The second kitchen in the basement that popped many popcorn kernels and saw many napkins turned into paper bowls. The bay window in the front of the house where no curtains hung, that let in streaming sunlight, and allowed a glimpse of a glowing Christmas tree for cars passing by. I remember the parties and all the leftovers. Sinatra singing and crumpled wrapping paper. I remember the hands that kneaded the dough on the butcher block table and I remember him laughing.

*

The cold air wasn’t as cold that night. Two days before Christmas. We ate linguini with clams. His favorite meal. He laughed between forkfuls and winked at me from across the table. His aged skin wrapped around his knuckles and rough palm which laid on top of her hand. He wiped his mouth with his withered napkin, damp with clam juice, before tossing it on his plate. And then he stopped breathing. 

*form based on Sherman Alexie's "The Unauthorized Autobiography of Me"

Forgotten Loss

        The woman sat at her kitchen table. She was older, hair graying at her temples. Pictures were scattered all over the table and in her hands. She held onto them tightly, trying to fit more and more into her boney hands. Some shook loose and fell to the floor. Memories scattered onto the hardwood as she bent over slowly to pick them up. Once she had collected them they were reunited with the piles on the table. Within the piles there was laughter. Birthday cakes and graduation gowns. Hammocks and fireflies. Her fingers grazed over faces. Her withered skin tracing over each smile. She sank into the chair holding only one picture in front of her. There were church stairs and smiling on lookers, their smiles black and white. A brown fur shawl and a powder blue tuxedo. An arm to shade her from the confetti. The picture started to shake as her unsteady hand held it. Just as it hit the floor she heard keys in her front door. Her daughter and son walked through the door muttering about the weather. Her daughter was carrying a little girl, maybe three years old, in her arms.

            “Hi, Ma,” her daughter said.

She walked through the dining room to the kitchen where her mother was sitting. She leaned over and kissed her on the cheek before putting the little girl down on the floor. The old woman kept staring. Her son kissed her on the head and headed deeper into the kitchen pulling boxes off the counters. Boxes of saltines with crackers crumbling out of the cracks, empty tissue boxes, forgotten boxes of pasta. He wiped down the laminate, collected the dust, and scrubbed the warped and stained wallpaper.

“Ma, you can’t let it get this bad,” he said. “It’s not good for you.”

She kept staring. Her daughter sat down next to her and scanned the familiar pictures. Her little girl was trying to climb into her lap so she scooped her the rest of the way up. The little girls’ eyes grew big at all the colors she saw on the table. Baseball gloves, tulle prom dresses, flock Christmas trees. She reached for a picture of her grandmother when she was much younger but as she lightly grasped it in her little hand it was pulled away. The old woman took it and placed it back in its respective pile, never looking up at the girl. Her daughter stroked her granddaughter’s hair, softening the moment.

“Ma, what should we have for dinner?” her daughter asked, in an attempt to sustain any kind of attention from her mother.

“Yeah, Ma. You want pizza?” her son chimed in. “We can make a couple pounds of pasta,” he added.

“We could order out?” her daughter said.

Their mother did not answer. She just sat, still staring at that picture. Her son grew impatient. An impatience that had formed after too many nights like this filled with too much staring and silence. Worry quickly followed this impatience.

“Mom. You can’t keep this up. It isn’t good for you or for us. It’s too quiet in here, it’s depressing. You have to get out and do stuff. Stop looking at these pictures all the time. It isn’t good for you. It’s been too long for you to still be acting like this. Enough is enough. Now, what do you want for dinner?”

The old woman looked up at him slowly, listening to what he was saying, and quietly spoke when he was through.

“Oh, I don’t care dear. Just make sure to set a place for your father.”

She turned to look back at the picture and smiled. Her children stared at her blankly.

“Ma, Dad’s not coming for dinner,” her daughter said to her quietly, taking her mother’s hand in hers.

Her son walked away from the table, running his hand through his hair. She looked up at her daughter quickly but said nothing. Confusion washed over her face. She looked around the kitchen and into the other rooms of the house she could see from her place at the table. She was always waiting for the front door to open.

“Well, he’ll be along soon enough,” she said.

Her children looked at each other, unaware of what to say or what to do. Her daughter hugged the little girl on her lap.

The old woman gathered all but one picture from the table together and tied them up with a red satin ribbon. She reached to pick the little girl up from her daughter’s lap and placed her on her own. She lifted the black and white picture up in front of the little girl’s face. She pointed to the church stairs, the smiling on lookers, the fur shawl, the powder blue tuxedos, and the arm that shaded her. She pointed to a handsome, smiling face and said, “Now, let me tell you about him.”

Wishing

          She stepped onto the platform, impatiently waiting for the train to arrive. She leaned over the edge looking down onto the black tracks, cemented with rust and grime. She turned her head to see if it was coming. It wasn’t. She exhaled deeply, annoyed. She fidgeted with her purse, adjusting the strap digging into her shoulder. She tapped the toe of her wooden platform shoe against the cement, checking her watch periodically. The face was small and round with black hands ticking. After looking for the third time, she let her wrist fall to her side and when she followed it down she saw a small blue ball roll past her. She looked up and saw a boy run after it and grab it before it fell off the side of the platform. He turned around with the ball in hand, a huge grin forming on his face.

            “Robert!” a voice from behind her called. A woman was running up the stairs and grasping at the railing catching her breath before stepping onto the platform. Her chestnut hair was windblown and fell all around her face.

“What did I say about getting that close to the edge?” she asked, panting.

The little boy was still smiling as he said, “But I got it! I didn’t let it drop!”

She walked over to him slowly still catching her breath. She smoothed the pale blue shift dress she was wearing, shaking out the skirt.

“That’s wonderful Bobby,” she said putting both her hands on her lower back for more support, “but next time, just let it go, if only to save your mother from having a heart attack after chasing you.”

“But I knew I could get it. Dad got me my ball.”

“I know he did, Bobby,” she said looking around the platform, “and he would have gotten you another one if you lost it.”

“But I like this one…” his voice trailing off as he held the ball tightly in his hands. She watched him look up and see that same grin appear. “Dad!” he said as a man carrying a little girl on his shoulders appeared climbing the last of the stairs. “I got it!” he yelled. The man walked over to them smiling.

He took the little girl from his shoulders and set her down next to her mother. She wore a dress similar to her mother’s but it was pale yellow with white daisies trimmed with lace. Her light brown hair hung right above her shoulders, some of it pulled away from her face, secured by a white ribbon, it’s bowed loops lying flat on the back of her head. Her mother smiled down at her as she reached for her hand.

“I’m sure your mother was thrilled,” he said smiling as he wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist, his other hand holding a black briefcase, the leather wearing.

She made eye contact with the mother who looked back at her, shrugging, shaking her head and smiling. She was trying to convey a sense of mutual understanding; woman to woman, mother to mother, but watching them interact only reminded her that she was waiting on that platform alone. She forced a small, polite smile and turned around in time to see the train approaching. When it came to a halt she walked quickly to the doors, getting too close, startling her when they opened inches from her face. She walked into the train car and sat down in the back in a corner seat. She placed her purse on her lap, the black strap hanging over her knees. She flattened her shirt and pushed her glasses higher up on her nose. She watched as the same family walked into the same train car and sat down together, one child on each parent’s lap, the little girl with her mother and boy with his father.

“Put that ball in your pocket,” she heard the father say to the boy, “the train can get bumpy buddy and you’ll lose it again.”

The boy didn’t put up a fight or make a peep in protest and did what he was told, slipping the blue ball into the pocket of his flared jeans. His father tousled his hair with his hand and the boy leaned into his father’s chest looking out the window. She watched the mother run her fingers through the little girl’s hair who sat on her lap sucking her thumb.

“Kelly, what animal are you most excited about seeing today?” her father asked her.

“The bunnies,” she said only taking her thumb out of her mouth to answer.

“Out of all the animals they have,” he said grinning, “you want to see the bunnies?”

The little girl shook her head and her mother kissed her on the head.

“Well, I want to see the anteater!” Bobby said. “I heard he just got there.”

Their father smiled. “Bunnies and an anteater,” he said facing his wife, “these are our children,” he said nodding at both of them and she laughed resting her head on his shoulder.

She looked at her watch again, growing more impatient with each bump and screech of the train. She wondered how she got here; sitting alone on the train. No husband to lean on, no children to bows in their hair or chase after. She looked back at the family in front of the train. The little girl had fallen asleep on her mother’s lap; the mother and father were talking quietly as the little boy held onto his father’s briefcase, guarding it carefully. Light flooded the train car as they came above ground and approached the Fullerton stop. The mother gently shook the little girl awake and she sat up looking around, rubbing her eyes.

“This is our stop, sweetie,” her mother said, “Give your father a kiss.”

The little girl leaned over and kissed her father on the cheek grabbing his neck to hold her up. When the train came to a complete stop she stood with her two children. The little boy put the briefcase on his father’s lap and high fived him when he lifted his hand in front of his face.

“See you later, Dad!” he called out before running to the train doors, his sister following behind.

Before the doors opened the mother leaned down to her husband and kissed him on the forehead.

“Have a good day,” she said as her fingers gently grazed his left temple where his hair was all gray.

He reached for her hand before she pulled away and kissed her palm. She smiled and he squeezed her hand as the door opened. She playfully nudged them apart and extended her hands, one for each child to grab. They started to walk down the platform as the doors closed and the train started to slowly move. As the train passed them up she watched the father make a goofy face out the window making the boy laugh and all three waved to him. He sat back in his seat, shaking his head, smiling. He saw her looking at him and she looked away quickly realizing just how long she had been staring. Out of the corner of her eye she could see he was still looking at her so she glanced back at him.

“Do you have kids?” he asked as he nodded to the window they appeared in just moments before.

“No,” she said looking back at her watch.

He nodded like he understood as the train started to slow again. He stood up, holding his briefcase in his left hand and said, “Get some,” and walked off the train, smiling. 

Polka Dots and Skinny Ties

          Her dress was black with cream colored polka dots and her hair was pulled back away from her face except for wispy pieces that curved like crescents near her outer eye. Her lips were stained red. She sat at a table covered in white linen and newly polished silver. The glass dangling from the chandelier overhead cast a twinkle against the forks. She watched the couples on the oak dance floor, the women’s skirts grazing the floor as their partners twirled them. She watched as women pressed their blushed cheeks to their partner’s and men holding on to their date by the small of their back. One of her aunts swooped in behind her and grabbed her shoulders pulling her out of her haze.

            “Do you see that gentleman over there, Rose?”

            “No,” she sighed.

            “Well, look closer. He’s staring right at you,” her aunt insisted.

            “He’s dancing with another woman,” she said.

            “Never mind the other woman. She’s a stand in. I know his father. Nice man. Works at the bank. I think you should dance with him.”

            “His father?”

“Rose, be serious. It’s a shame you sitting here all by yourself,” her aunt said.

“I’m tired of being set up.”

            “Nonsense, it’s all been arranged. I spoke with his father before the reception. He’s all set to ask you. It took some convincing I might add, so lighten up or you’ll never get married.”

            “Aunt Mary, I’m twenty-four years old,” she said.

            “Don’t remind me,” her aunt said and walked away.

She searched the dance floor again for his face, not even sure why. The song had changed and slower melodic notes began to float out of the mouths of the trumpets and saxophones. Suddenly he appeared as the crowd began to disperse making room for some of the older couples who were more adept at slow dancing. He stood before her, smiling, holding out his hand.

“You must be Rose,” he said.

Giving him a bored sigh she said, “You’re smooth.”

He grinned and her stomach flipped. He sat down in the empty seat next to her, resting his arm on the table, his elbow knocking an empty glass over. She rolled her eyes.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said, “my aunt can be a little high strong.”

“Well, so can my father,” he said moving the glass to the center of the table, “but he said I’d be doing him a favor.”

Rose turned to look at him this time. She noticed his eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and he had a small scar at his temple. The lines in his forehead deepened when he spoke.

“And what favor would that be?” she asked.

“Hell if I know,” he said, “he just said he owed a customer at work a favor.” He had a fork in his hand now, scraping his nail over the middle tine. 

“And he volunteered you?” she smirked.

“Is that a problem?” he asked, looking up at her.

His hair was graying at the sides as flecks of silver caught her eye. She smoothed the black chiffon in her lap with her hands.

“I’m no one’s “favor” so you’ll have to tell your dad he’s outta luck,” she said as she scanned the room for her aunt, ready when she spotted her, with a few choice words forming in her head.

“Listen, my father didn’t mean to personally offend you,” he said putting his hand on her knee, “he was just trying to do something nice.”

Her eyes darted from scanning the crowd to her polka dot covered knee his hand was now covering.

“First, you can remove your hand from my knee, thank you.”

He looked at his hand on her knee where he was rubbing the chiffon between his fingers. Her stomach flipped again. He rolled his eyes and pulled away slowly.

“Secondly, your father and I apparently have a different opinion on what constitutes doing something nice for someone else,” she said locating her aunt at table across the room, “so if you’ll excuse me I have a few words for my aunt.”

As she started to get up he grabbed her wrist and she looked down at his hand on hers. His palm was soft but the skin on his fingers that wrapped around her wrist was dry.

“Instead of doing all that, why don’t you dance with me,” he said now grinning, “despite your many apprehensions.”

“I think I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m not interested,” she said as she smoothed her hair with her free hand.

“Well, I think if that were true you would have left already,” he said.

“You didn’t give me much of a chance, “she said and she felt her cheeks warm as she slid her hand out from underneath his.

He stood next to her. Standing next to him she realized he was several inches taller than she was. He smoothed his tie, black and skinny.

“Come dance with me,” he asked again, “and at the end of the song you can make a scene on the dance floor if you want, hit me or something. Your aunt will be horrified. Call it payback.”

She looked up at his face and smiled. A man in a white tuxedo had made his way to the stage standing behind a skinny microphone. The band started to play. He held out his hand for her to take.

“You didn’t even tell me your name,” she said.

“Just one song,” he said his hand still extended.

As she took it the man onstage started to sing. The melody made her feel warm as the words wrapped around them. He slowly swung her around when they reached the middle of the dance floor. His arm wrapped around her waist and his hand laid flat on the small of her back. Her entire hand fit inside of his and her blushed cheek found its way to his. 

That Time Ted Attempted Murder

The rage was building up in his face, his skin reddening. He ran his hand through his hair over and over, picking up speed every time. Why didn’t she seem to care? Did she really not care that he had found out or that she may have hurt him? What, his feelings didn’t count know? She was always taken care of in this relationship, wasn’t she? He had paid for her frivolous beauty treatments, for all those stupid, wildly expensive clothes, not to mention the annual tickets to Comic Con which she never appreciated.

“So, what you’re telling me is that you slept with someone?” he asked.
            “You can ask me as many times as you want. The answer is always going to be the same,” she said.
            “But what you’re saying is you two… you were together… the two of you…”
            “Yes!” she yelled. “The two of us. That’s usually the minimum of what you need in that kind of situation.”

He looked around the room and paced excessively. He couldn’t believe this was happening.
            “Look, I can see you’re getting all bent out of shape over this, so I’m just going to leave,” she said as she started to pack her things.

He soon realized she thought she was going to get away with it. Who did she think she was? She thinks she can just sleep around with whomever she chooses? I’m not good enough? He got angrier and angrier as he watched her pack and nonchalantly check her phone as she went. He watched her shove blouses and jeans into her duffle bag, not bothering to fold any of it. What happened to this woman? She’s going to ruin the integrity of the denim. She opened the top drawer of their dresser and emptied it, taking all of those thong things she loved to collect and throwing them in the bag as well.

“Mel, you’re taking all of your clothes?” he asked when he realized she wasn’t emptying just one drawer but all of them.

“Why wouldn’t I take them all, Ted? I’m not coming back.”

He sat down on the bed, defeated. He couldn’t stop watching her pack up the life they’d built together. She added mismatched socks to the bag. She’s truly a woman on the edge. Those aren’t even in pairs.

“Do you have to sit there watching me like that?” she asked. “It’s depressing. I mean, you’re really embarrassing yourself. You know that, don’t you?”

He could only mumble, “Your socks don’t match” in response.

“Jesus, Ted, speak up. You know no one can hear you when you mumble like that.”

He felt her watching him, waiting for him to speak. She quickly grew impatient and sauntered off into the bathroom. He heard the clinking of glass bottles as she gathered them in her arms. I paid for those perfumes. He watched her carry them into the room and lay them gently on the bed before going back for more. He picked up a round bottle with an emerald jeweled top. Inside, liquid gold rocked back and forth, coating the walls of the bottle with shimmer.

“This one always smells the best on you,” he said to her as he held the bottle up in front of him. She looked down at him in total confusion.

“Ted, what the hell is the matter with you? I just told you, not even fifteen minutes ago, that I slept with someone else, and you’re sitting here complimenting my perfume? Get a grip on yourself!”

She stormed back into the bathroom and he heard the opening and closing of doors and drawers sliding in and out. He heard her taking inventory out loud, making sure she had her brushes and lotions and all 473 bottles of nail polish. Who needs all those colors? Only a real mental case has that many bottles of polish. He held it up so the light from the window seemed to pass right through the glass. He twisted the top off and smelled the lingering scent clinging to the metal sprayer. He started to shake the bottle. Slow at first but then increased his pace bordering on violent until he let it drop limply from his hand and roll onto the carpet.

Before he could bend over to pick up the bottle he had dropped she swooped in quickly and grabbed it first. They stared at each other awkwardly before she turned to finish packing. He heard her phone vibrate on the dresser where it was sitting. She giggled as she read the text message she had received.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“No one, Ted.” she answered.

He thought of all the people it could be. Her mother? Her mother, it was definitely her mother. But when he looked over at her she was biting her lip while she typing her response. Maybe it wasn’t her mother. He grew increasingly angry. She was actually going to leave him. Why hadn’t it hit him until just now? Hadn’t he done enough? And what’s he left with? An empty house and comic books to come home to. Well, not for nothing. Suddenly he couldn’t contain his rage. This was worse than when his brother stole his Wolverine Halloween costume last year. He glanced around the room until his eyes landed on the sterling silver candle stick, a wedding gift they had received.  He walked quietly behind her, and when he got close enough to smell her hair… the candle stick met her head. He had swung with all the energy he had left, and after she had settled on the floor, her head landing in a pool of her own blood, he sat down beside her and traced his finger over her lip.

He sat there thinking about their relationship and then their marriage. Where had it gone wrong? What could have happened to make her want to cheat? He wondered if he could have been home more often. Maybe listened to her more. Looking down at his wife, her hair matted with blood, he felt some remorse. Then, he heard that ding again. He crawled over to where her phone had landed when she dropped it and picked it up. The screen was blinking with a new message.
            It said: Can’t wait to see you later ;)

The feeling of remorse was quickly chased away by the familiar rage. He wrote back, asking if they could meet at a local, late-night coffee shop later that evening. When he received an “absolutely” in response he was thrilled to imagine this jackass’ face when he showed up instead of his wife. He’d need something bigger than a candle stick, though.

The evening dragged on as his anticipation grew stronger and more unmanageable. He wrapped her in cellophane and shoved her limp body into several black trash bags, getting rid of his wife’s body like he saw them do on TV. He dragged her out into the garage and lifted her into his open trunk, and decided that’s where she would remain until he found a proper place to bury her. He thought himself a regular Tony Soprano. With her out of the way he was able to devise his plan. He decided to go simple and shoot the asshole in the head, but he decided to bring his bladed Wolverine claws just in case. He got in the car and made it to the coffee shop a half hour before closing as planned. The only person there was the twenty-something barista who watched him closely through the window, presumably hoping he wouldn’t order anything. He turned away from the window to monitor the parking lot. With his hands in his pocket (he vetoed the claws when he realized they wouldn’t fit) he surveyed the parking lot and only saw one other car besides his. He couldn’t see very well from his angle, but the driver looked too small to be who he was waiting for. He stood there for another ten minutes, still eyeing the car, until the driver’s side door opened and a woman stepped out. A thin, blonde wearing a navy coat was walking toward him. He looked behind him before she reached him, thinking she must be walking to someone else. She walked with her head down and didn’t raise it until she reached him.

“I take it she told you,” she said.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“You’re Mel’s husband, right? I told her you were going to catch on but she didn’t believe me. Obviously she was wrong, because here you are!”

He stared at her blankly not processing what she was saying to him.

“Listen, I’m very sorry you had to find out this way. I told her to wait and we would tell you together, but you know how she is…” she said chuckling, as she playfully nudged his shoulder.

He stared at his shoulder in disbelief. This can’t be.

“So where is she? Is she getting some coffee? We can all sit down and…”

“Let me see if I understand this,” he interrupted her. “It’s you. It was you all this time?”

“Yes…” she answered.

“You’re not here trying to bust your husband or boyfriend or something?”

Her face shifted from confusion to worn out aggravation. “No… never had a boyfriend, pal.”

“So let me see if I’m getting this correctly.” He paused, collecting the tantalizing thoughts racing through his head in every direction. “My wife and you. Together. It was you. You and my wife.”

“Jesus, now I see why I’m so appealing,” she answered as she shifted in her coat.

“So what you’re saying is my wife was sleeping with a woman this whole time?” he asked.

“Tough loss, man,” she said with a little too much condescension for his liking. “So, should I follow you back to your house because the plan was for me to see her…”

Shit. If I would have cooled it I could have maybe gotten something out of this.

“Well, normally I would absolutely have you follow me but my wife is currently unable to receive visitors but I have a question for you if you have a minute.”

“Listen… Ted, it is Ted right? I don’t really have time to explain to you all the unresolved issues of your marriage so…”

“Yeah, no, I get that. I’m actually uninterested in whatever I did wrong in the relationship although now it’s clear one of those things wrong was having a penis…” he interrupted, “but do you think, hypothetically speaking of course, if I had asked her do you think she would have let me get in on this?”

“Are you serious?” she asked, looking at her watch.

“Completely. We could have had a menage a trios of sorts. Tried on a few of my costumes. I mean if I had known she was into chicks this could have gone an entirely different way!”

“Oh yeah, totally. That would have solved everything. Listen I have to go… why don’t you ask her the next time you see her,” she said.

He started running his hand through his hair again, annoyed.

“You see, that may be a problem…”

She interrupted him when she heard a sound coming from the parking lot behind them. A continuous thumping.

“Is that your car over there?”

He looked over in the direction she was staring at and shook his head.

“Why is your trunk thumping?” she asked as she started to back away slowly.

“Oh, great! There’s still time to ask her!” 

Magicians: An Editorial From The Mind of an Eight Year Old

         What is wrong with him? I mean, this is my birthday party. I didn’t even really want a magician but my Mom told me that was what I was getting. She thinks she knows what’s cool. She doesn’t. But I guess magic is kind of okay. Kind of. But this guy is stupid. He’s wobbly like what kind of magician can’t even stand straight? He keeps asking all the moms and dads for a table. Why didn’t you bring your own table, dude? You’re ruining my party completely. He has such a dumb name too. I can’t even remember it. Tan something. Doll… fo… dufus!

            He’s doing it again! He keeps drinking from this shiny square jug he keeps in his pocket. He smiles weird after he drinks it too. What a weirdo. Oh great. He just made a girl cry. I mean, I know girls are basically the worst there is but come on. Even I don’t make girls cry. Finally! He asked me to come on stage with him but there definitely isn’t a stage so I’m not going to pretend…I mean this is my living room. Idiot. He says, “since you’re part of the show, you have to wear a costume,” and then he puts this dumb hat on me and called me a “handsome fellow”. Okay, no. I don’t wear hats, my red hair is distraction enough and I don’t even know what a fellow is but I’m not one. He won’t shut up about this hat which is really annoying but I feel better if I can annoy him so I think that’s what I’ll do. He’s getting more and more mad which is funny for me. His weird makeup is starting to sweat off too. Dummy, what boy wears makeup? He didn’t even saw anyone in half. 

Practice in dialogue - Pt. I

“It’s just getting too hard,” she said
“You’re being irrational. Nothing between us is too hard.”
“How could you think what we have, this, is good?”
“Because it is good! For the most part… when you’re not yelling at me, or bitchy, or out all the time…”
“See, don’t you get it? I shouldn’t be out all the time. I should want to be home. But I don’t.”
“I can’t understand why.”
“You can’t understand why? Are you kidding me? You’re always working, you don’t touch me, you don’t look at me unless you’re disputing something I’ve said, you don’t laugh, you’re basically a dick 98% of the time, you don’t…”
“Okay, I think that’ll do it.”
“This is divorce is necessary. I don’t see why you can’t see that.”
“Because who wants to go through all that? All the legal shit, the drama.”
“Someone who wants more than this.”
“Oh, and what might that be?”
“A life with someone. A shared life with someone. What we have isn’t anything shared. We live separately but together.”
“I don’t see what’s wrong with that.”
“Okay, I wasn’t going to tell you this because I thought you would come around but you leave me no choice… I slept with someone else.”
“Are you kidding me? You would jeopardize all of what we have for a cheap, one night stand with some frat boy wanna-be bro? You’ll get your wish. I’m calling my lawyer.”
“No need. I’m seeing him again for dinner tonight.”

Where I'm From

I am from calphalon pots,
from garlic and schnitzel.
I am from decks of playing cards,
suits and colors swirling around a cousin’s dining room table.
I am from the pergola,
draped in its own fruit.

I’m from worn pajamas, 

and a worn blue shirt smelling of cut grass.
I am from Sinatra and McCartney
from Seinfeld and Chanel perfume.
I’m from shared holidays,
and whatta-you-gunna-do’s?

I’m from Tuccio’s and America’s Market,
calamari and nostalgia.
From the stories told,
to the books that could have been written.

I’m from dimes,

found on the hard ground,
the grass, the car seat, the suitcase.
I am from the past,
who send their love and their dimes. 

In The Air (a villanelle)

Your tie hanging on the back of my chair.
Your fingers graze the buttons on your shirt.
A dark hand running through my hair.

Clothes scattered leave you bare
Lying on the floor deserted and hurt.
Your tie hangs on the back of my chair.

Mystery and nerves hang in the air.
I look away, I don’t want to revert.
A dark hand running through my hair.

It feels too good to even care
Forgetting the secrets buried in the dirt.
Your tie hanging on the back of my chair.

Who could forgive? Not even in the house of prayer.
The gossip spins and blurts.
A dark hand running through my hair.

We’re all told life isn’t always fair
and good people are often hurt.
Your tie still hangs on the back my chair.
and your dark hand runs through my hair. 

The Friendly Confines (open form)

Maybe you held the ticket stub in your hand,
the edge was rough on your fingertips where it had been ripped.
Maybe it was a warm day and the humidity grew when you walked inside its brick framework.
The laughing and restless chatter rose into the air.
The friendly confines.
But the concrete was cold and the railing cool as you grabbed it,
helping you up the ramp.
And as you climbed green appeared and you looked up at him,
looking for confirmation, seeking a realization.
It wasn’t a dream.
Maybe he smiled, knowingly.
Proud he was responsible for giving you this moment, his son.
A moment you’d tell your children about.
You’d tell them about a place that has proven itself indescribable.
A magical place that feels like home.
The friendly confines.
The ivy appeared and you watched it coil around that wall.
You smelled the fried food in the air; saw the bags of peanuts whirl over your head.
Maybe when you reached your seat you took it all in.
The buildings climbing behind the green and white scoreboard,
the numbered uniforms running below you,
all the legends that ran before you,
and the man sitting next to you.
The friendly confines. 

Surrounded (a pantoum)

Our lives were surrounded by wood
Controlled by words
Manipulated by materialistic affection.
We couldn’t sleep on the leather.

Controlled by words
I hid in the closet wrapped in memories.
We couldn’t sleep on the leather
We never heard the silence.

I hid in the closet wrapped in memories.
Consumed by what-ifs.
We never heard the silence.
And laughter was rare.

Consumed by what-ifs
While living with a guilty conscience.
Laughter was rare.
But jealousy lives where the grass is always greener.

While living with a guilty conscience
Numbness ensues.
Jealousy lives where the grass is always greener
And one covets thy neighbor.

Numbness ensues.
Distress finds its damsel
When one covets thy neighbor.
Faith weakens when love is a hand wrapped around a neck.

Distress finds its damsel
And the charms of princes seem fewer.
Faith weakens when love is a hand wrapped around a neck
When a daughter protects her mother.

And the charms of princes seem fewer
Controlled by words and what not to say.
Views obstructed by flaws
Our lives were surrounded by wood.