almost time to pack my bags for a

lark in the dark

but there are two things

holding me back:

I haven’t written enough

poems yet

and there’s this

old guy who lives in

the house next door.

he’s still there and he’s

96.

he knocks on his window

with his cane and

blows kisses to my

wife.

he’s totally alert,

straight arrow back,

quick on his feet,

he watches too much

tv but don’t we

all?

I visit him sometimes.

he talks away,

not bad stuff, he sometimes

tends to repeat himself

but it’s almost worth hearing

a second time.

I was sitting with him one

day and he said,

“you know, I’m going to

kick off soon…”

“well,” I said, “I don’t know

about that.”

“I do,” he said.

“now look, would you like

to trade for my house?”

“well, yeah, it’s a nice place.”

“I don’t know if you can give me

what I want for it…”

“well, I don’t either, try me.”

“well,” he said, “I’ll trade for a new

set of testicles.”

when this guy dies there is

going to be a great big space

that is going to be hard

to fill.

you know what I

mean?

a problem

we met for dinner

at a place near the

harbor.

Paul, his wife,

Tina.

me, my wife,

Sarah.

we finished

dinner.

I suggested

drinks at our

place.

they followed

our BMW in

their

Mercedes.

with our drinks

we got into

politics and

religion.

I looked at

Paul and

noticed that

his face had

turned into a

cardboard

face, his

eyes into

marbles.

then I saw

my face

in the mirror

above the

mantle.

I had the

head of an

alligator.

I poured

more

drinks.

the conversation

turned to the

after-life,

abortion and

the Russians.

then somebody

told an

ethnic

joke

and the night

was over.

we walked them

to the

door.

they got into

their Mercedes

and backed out

down the

drive.

we waved

they blinked

their

lights.

we went

back

inside.

“I wonder what

they are saying now

about

us?” I

ventured.

“what are we

going to say

about

them?” Sarah

asked.

“nothing,” I

answered.

“did you ever

notice?”

she asked.

“what?”

“sometimes you

have

a head

like an

alligator.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“we don’t have

any friends

at all,”

Sarah

said.

taken

Ezra, Celine, Hamsun, Sartre, others

got mixed up with that whore

Politics

and it makes you wonder,

was it bad diet?

bad liquor?

ennui?

couldn’t they have just motored

down the coast and stopped off

for a simple lunch?

why assume other roles?

fools run governments, not everyone

can guide the

world.

centuries don’t change men,

they only make them seem more

foolish.

those writers, couldn’t they have

gone boating?

couldn’t they have skipped the

idiot’s trap,

the total loss of

sense?

how could they have done so

well

and then so

badly?