My aging apple tree, which never has given me
more than a few green sour apples, is turning
into something
that looks like
a Portuguese Cork tree, its gnarled
bark peeling
out from its core, a festering yellowish
gumming oozing
from under its layering.

I tree-whisper: you need attention.
I should climb up
its crumbling bark and saw off a few appendages.
But climbing up means
climbing down, and I’m not sure of that.
The tree isn’t the only aging plant.  
It’s never been properly pruned. A dead limb
here and there. Never properly parented by me.
Put in the wrong ground with the wrong soil. And not
nursed. Husbanded.
Nurtured.
It knows more about being an apple tree
than I do, I rationalized my neglect.

By their fruits you shall know them.  

I spotted a few blossoms this year,  but
can’t find
a solitary apple. Maybe the squirrels
got them, they usually do, or maybe the tree’s
just old and giving up.

“It ain’t over till it’s over,” Yogi and I lecture
the aging sapling, but it’s a
one-way conversation,
the yellow sap
still leaching. Even Yogi
can’t brace it back to its
youthful promise, can’t get
it to envision the one-tree-orchard
I imagined at its planting,
branches sagging under
the weight
of luscious reds
and bracing
greens.

Once, after school on a late Friday afternoon,
my mom took me to a liquor store, 
near downtown Chicago.
Red-faced men shuffled out front, 
near a big silver door with a round window,
smoking unfiltered cigarettes.
Still in my St. Pete’s green, yellow and blue 
plaid uniform, eyes were on me
and my mom
in her dark cat-eye sunglasses.
She hoisted 2 big jugs of Carlo Rossi Chablis,
a bottle of Gallo burgandy onto the counter,
let go of my hand to carry the white.
I carried the smaller brown bag of red.

The bottles jiggled in the back seat,
almost fell to the floor
when she came to a complete stop
in front of the convent–
where the nuns lived.
This year I had tall Sister Rita Mary.
The large wooden rosary beads
hanging from her waist clanked
as as she wiggled down
the narrow aisles of desks, collecting
homework and the spelling words
we neatly wrote five times in vertical rows.

Mom said:
squat down in the front seat,
don’t get up until I tell you.
She got one jug up the narrow steps, 
came back for the second.  On the third trip,
she got the bottle of red,
opened the glove compartment,
above my head
grabbed a pack of Marlboro’s–
they were for Sister Geraldine.

Hisses of justice, whispers of peace,

A silver tongue spun in privileged pleas.

It slithers through circles where truth takes a stand,

Extending a cautious and calculated hand.

It speaks of the righteous, it weeps for the lost,

Yet measures its words by what they might cost.

It bends with the breeze, it sways with the tide,

Never too far from either side.

It feigns revolution but whispers retreat,

Plays martyr and savior, but stays on its feet.

It feeds the fire yet quenches the flame,

With crocodile tears, denying the blame.

When cries for justice shake the land,

It offers a smile, a hollow hand.

A friend to the voiceless—until power calls,

Then it slinks to the shadows behind fortress walls.

Beware the serpent with honeyed breath,

That trades in half-truths and deals in death.

For nothing is crueler, nothing more crass,

Than a snake in the garden, a snake in the grass.

Love to me is no longer confessions of longing, 
or testimonies of attraction. 
Love to me is laughing together all shift, 
and you taking out my trash before I notice it’s full. 
I want to take care of you when you’re overwhelmed, 
and hangout with you after it’s time to go home.
You took time to think about what I said
and you, who’s never been sure about anything in your life, came back and said
despite all the confusion, you were always sure you could never love me.

A thousand of us unemployed,
did ya think about that, WCTU woman?
I walked away from Pepper’s
leavin’ 2600 barrels of whiskey behind. 
My buddies and me trudged up Manchester Street,
last pay in our pockets. 

Some headed uptown
to revel in the last legal night.
Not me, no,
I gotta get on home
to six kids and a sick wife. 

Last day on the North Broadway trolley
I feel guilty payin’ that nickel;
jingle will be scarce soon.

All them stuck up ladies outside the Christian Church
wear white dresses and broad-brimmed hats,
serve up ice cream and lemonade,
celebrate like it’s The Second Coming. 
A Lexington Herald photographer records the fête.

Hey, ladies!
I don’t care who spends the rent 
in Main Street’s saloons. 
Don’t point at me. 
While them others have hangovers
        tomorrow
I’ll be out findin’ me a job. 

behind each cabinet door
and in every kitchen drawer,
    my mother waits.
in ladles and gravy boats,
in butter dishes and silver serving spoons,
    she holds space and time
    – mine –
since she left me behind,
with only tea towels to dry my tears
and old tupperware to hold
my kitchentable memories
    of her.  

her kitchen was a castle.
mine is merely a time capsule              
    to recall her love.

Empty pages on the internet contain
lives of our friends who didn’t 
make it to the present we so enjoy.
Their pictures are time capsules,
their words logs of life long lost,
their friends still posting on birthdays
“I miss you. You’re gone too soon.”
The memorials of binary baubles
ever present in its coding. Its flashbacks
remind us of love left in the ledgers.
I wonder if they still read the adverts,
if they can solve the evolving Captchas,
or when the servers will scrub their data.

One picked, two picked, three
What some call weeds, her perfume
Get a whiff, mister!

Five things I can see:
     beam of sunlight peeking through dusty curtains
          two-toned purple water bottle with the straw up
               my favorite pair of jeans wadded up on the floor
                    Robin Williams inspirational magnet on the board
                         vibrant orchid pattern on my new bedsheets from my mom

Four things I can feel:
     thick plush grey blanket weighing down my limbs
          smooth shellac of the polish coating my fingernails
               mosquito bite on my ankle itching from mowing grass
                    wooden grain of the nightstand traced by my fingertips

Three things I can hear:
     consistent hum of the air conditioning vent in the floor
          muffled giggles of my nephew playing outside with my sister
               tapping of a pen in quick succession against the back of my phone

Two things I can smell:
     scent of bacon sizzling in the air fryer for a late brunch
          remnants of lavender pillow spray lingering on my pillowcase

One thing I can taste:
     wintergreen mint dissolving on my tongue before I bite it in half

And, unexpectedly, another thing I deeply know:
     I am stronger than I have ever been