drinking my teafor what comfort it brings me,I stand by the windowwatching this half-hearted quarantine.beneath me, the riverruns with white clouds,its rippled alternativeof black against silverlike light in the morningcatching a badly scratchedfrying pan.there are people aboutand cars wandering, though I must admitthere are fewer than usual;a black fragmentof burned bacon, submergedin what’s left of... Continue Reading →
Once a week it seemsI drive past St. Peter’s Churchand catch a parking lot full of cars.No, not for the church but a funeral.And each time I’m reminded of my ageand that this is how it will be.I try to tell myself, I am readyas I dart past the crowded lot.Only lately a suited manstands out... Continue Reading →
In my son’s wide eyes I can seethe steeple of the church we leftafter one too many dirty looks —mosquito bites that you can’t scratchand soothe — when we couldn’t shush himand I can see him playingall afternoon with a vacuum cleanerand gazing out the window with wonderat the gray power lineswhile all the other... Continue Reading →
My folks sent me away to live with my Aunt Charlene and Uncle Bud in eastern Colorado the summer of 1969, praying I’d come back a reformed boy. I’d gotten into trouble at home, and my old man figured some hard time in corn country would straighten me out. “You’re a lying little sneak,” is... Continue Reading →
about this piece Winter Swimming2020Acrylic paint and oil pastel on canvas40 x 30 in See More in Art...
On their way to Peter Luger Steak House, with its juicy tenderloins and creamed spinach so rich it can stop your heart, Eyal and Kobe, handsome young men still on Tel Aviv time, take in the lights of lower Manhattan. They’re with Eyal’s gray-haired friend Harry on a half-filled J train, inching across the Williamsburg... Continue Reading →
I never had an abortion butone morning I needed Plan B.I asked the pharmacist in hushed tones buthe stared back loudly andlooked me up and down.I felt examined and exposed as heslid the box across the cool counter with his cool eyesthat judged a woman he had never met.I shook off his stare; I’d seen... Continue Reading →
about this piece I Am on the Fence2018Watercolor on paper6" x 4" See More in Art...
I always loved his handsEspecially in the later years —Holding and being held.“Lefty” they called him whenyoung at handball and stickball in Bronx alleys;Or when bowling as long as Icould remember.Though short were the dayswith classroom-rapped knucklesfor writing in that sinister way,Later he made it rightReading the world inNewspapers, edition upon folded edition,Drinking in sports’... Continue Reading →
about this piece Seashell Translations2018Watercolor on paper7.5" x 5.5" See More in Art...
