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Aquarium

Incessantly consecutive

for twelve hours uninterrupted

accompanied by

the tuggily sound of bubbles

my fish swim

back and forth

up and down

across the inside of their tank

under the florescent light they know as day

Their incredibly hyper activity

makes me so  nervous.

At night when I retire

I listen to them in the darkness

bumping into one other.

My anxiety

anticipating accidents

keeps me awake for hours.

And after

when I finally can

drop off

their raucous behavior

wrenches me from rest.

Now in the evenings

before I shut the lights

I lower the water level to three inches

just to teach them a lesson.

But…

Sure I'd like to hold you.

In fact

I dream about it every single day.

I'd love to kiss you too,

And hug you,

But your "But..." gets in the way.

Cemetery Day

Today is cemetery day when my

sister and I drive into Queens to check

the family plot, not an easy task even

so many years after the dust has cleared.

In winter we lay a Christmas wreath

and grave blanket, more I suppose

for us than those reposing there.

In spring we do the same thing,

bringing with us then palm and

Easter plants. We make sure

everyone has been behaving,

that the uncles playing pinochle

aren’t so loud they wake the dead,

that the sisters are getting along,

that the living in charge of grounds

are doing their job giving eternal

perpetual care to all those long gone

and still mourned.

Fall Raking Time

 

Fall raking time puts me at odds with my neighbor.

He is one who would give Mother Nature a hand

at every turn. In the spring I have heard him

from early morning until late afternoon

blowing the blossoms from his weeping cherry.

“To make the tree leaf sooner,” he says

when he sees me watching him. But I suspect

it is to keep them from staining pink the pristine

concrete drive he scrubs clean every weekend,

and prevent his kids tracking them inside.

I, on the other hand, am content to let my maple

leaves grow and fall, rest where they lie,

let them be moved by wind or whim.

“I see there is a bumper crop of foliage this year,”

he tells me as he passes close on his John Deere

riding mower, unleafing his still verdant green lawn,

drawing a straight line between his property and mine.

I know he would have me reduce my maple to fire wood

and save him fall raking time that he could use

to power wash his house and the cement again.

But I am intent on other things and just nod my head.

“Seems to be more leaves than I have ever seen,”

I say with a smile.

I Harbor a Cat

I harbor a cat – Ursuler. with an e-r,

like Silvier, the cat I harbored before her.

She is OCD, Obsessively Cat Disordered,

though cat non-harborers couldn’t tell.
She licks herself bald when I am away,
and most times when I am there as well.
I have thought of getting rid of her,

trading her in for a newer, younger model,

but she is a member of the family,

like a retarded old aunt who sleeps

on the floor in the basement.
I considered getting her a companion

to play with, a kitten, but I am afraid it would

kill her, or cause Ursuler to lick until

she disappears. Urs, I mean, not the kitten.

So instead I drag her to expensive, holistic vets

who scratch their heads and stick her with

acupuncture pins. I cram her full of pills she leaves

behind the couch or projects onto the bed linens.

I buy her cat medicine sprays that do not work,

pour calming agents that do not calm

into her drinking water. I ring her neck with

cut out paper plates to keep her from making

bad matters worse.  But mostly I curse

that I harbor cats, that I am a cat person.

Jesse's Hands

 

Jesse's hands,

once so small and delicate,

have grown with him,

large and powerful,

into the hands of a man.

His fingers so strikingly long

and tapered, easily those

of a sculptor, an artist,

a classical pianist

with their two octave range,

the gentle hands of a lover,

a tender caresser,

giver of flowers.

Seeing them now,

bloody and bruised,

makes me wince to think

just how those beautiful hands

bent and broke against windshield,

banged pavement, scraped concrete

that scored his skin ruddy

like notes on a scale,

tore memory away,

and music those hands

once held securely.

Surly seeing him there

today after surgery

in the hospital haze,

his broken leg and ankle

held in place by rod and pins

may seem by far the greater injury,

but it is Jesse's hands,

May Day

A black Lab

his dark fur tinged with gray

a hoary overcoat frosted

or dusted by age

in the spring sun

mottled by shade of leafing trees

sits on May grass

shining green

newly alive

amid the scatter of dandelions

and insects flicking

in and out of light.

Like an old man

who has seen it all

the dog barely opens rheumy eyes

to trace the passage of early butterflies

surprised by the morning brightness.

Oblivious

ears muted by the years

obviously he isn’t aware

of the squirrels quarreling close by

happy they survived another winter.

Or maybe

seeing ghosts

hearing distant voices

recalling

ninety-one dog years

gone

he doesn’t care.

November Snow

November snow

enough

to white the trees

to cotton lawns

and hide the leaves

I meant yesterday to rake

to wet the street

and dampen feet

of children

waiting at the curb

for the school bus

that will take them

back in time

to Pilgrim pageants

and Thanksgiving parties.

November snow

magically provides

a glimpse

of Christmas

still a month away.

Retired and Recycled

In the middle of the night

when your cans are out of sight

and a rustling in the bushes

makes you shake and quake with fright,

don't worry, little lady,

even though you are alone.

It's not Dahmer in the darkness

who is picking at your bones.

It's not Manson in your trash.

It's no monster that is leering

that is peering through your sash.

It's only me there, lady,

and I'm looking for some cash

that my ex will never find

and her lawyers can't attach. So relax.

Now I may be on the skids,

and I'm poking under lids,

but it didn't seem to matter

all those years I taught your kids.

Spare a nickel? Dime? A quarter?

You got a really pretty daughter –

But you don't need to fear.

There's no cause to shed a tear.

Lady, I WAS HICKSVILLE

HIGH SCHOOL'S TEACHER

OF THE YEAR!

September Cut

The lawn has slowed its rush to grow
in the cooling nights.

That place next to the wisteria,

scorched in the mid-August drought,

finally came back just in time

to brown with the rest of the zoysia grass

that has called it a season.
It is September, the days growing short,
and I spend my Saturday cutting back

everything neglected, forgotten –

restoring order before putting up

the mower until next far away spring,

if it ever comes again.

The old electric trimmer strains and

shudders against the privet hedge

that has given up too.

Only the few fading green maple stems

protruding through dead leaves

are still trying desperately to become trees.
Sounds of distant neighbors in their yards

join mine, as we work together

independently

to erase summer with this last September cut.

There's a Man Living in my Closet

There's a man living in my closet.

I've never seen him, but I know he's in there,

sulking - skulking,

waiting for me to make just one mistake:

come too close without crossing my fingers –

a double hex to hold the door closed.

Perched and ready to spring,

he's pressed against the molding.

I can hear the devil scratching

in the muffled little dungeon –

living in all those linens

and quilts and things.

If I hold my breath, I can hear his breathing.

Sometimes I talk to him:

"Who are you? What do you want?

Why don't you leave me alone?"

But he never answers,

he's much too clever to give away the game.

I know he's in there.

Yesterday I put my cap on the dining room table

and now it's gone.

He took it.

There's no question in my mind but that hat

is on his head right now.

I can feel him grinning at me –

a silent challenge to twist the door knob

and fling everything in an open confrontation.

And I'd do it too,

but then there'd be nobody.

We Are a Family

 

Janine and the kids are here overnight,

camping on the living room floor.

In the morning I mix my famous

Peepa’s Surprise Pancakes for our

“Breakfast with Aunt Mikki”!

Crowded around the table in the tiny kitchen,

“What’s the surprise?” Brianna and Matt ask.

I say, as I have since both my daughters

were younger than my grandkids are now,

“It’s whatever you may find inside that

isn’t pancake: peanut butter, perhaps,

chocolate chips, little bits of plastic fork,

toenail clippings, cat fur or maybe even

a band aid or two.” When I dish them out,

steaming hot off the grill, time bends,

the years disappear. “Surprise,” Matt says

with pride. “I got the band aid!”

And we all laugh. We are a family.

© 2015 Joseph E. Scalia from Poetry In Alphabetical Order

                                                    

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