We -- Mike Sicher and John Sicher -- are brothers. John has long taken pictures and Mike has written over the years. They had the idea of taking some of John's images and pairing them with written impressions from Mike. In that process, they have realized that often John sees an image one way, and Mike another.
We believe that the words and images enhance each other, and that neither the words nor the images alone are as communicative as when they are seen together.
We call those combinations, Picture Stories. This website is an evolving project, with new items added often and usually at the top of the feed. So, please check back.
The images on this website are street photography by John Sicher, of individuals not known to either of us. The words below the images are fictionalized impressions written by Mike Sicher after seeing the images, and not in any way a commentary on, or in any way about, the actual people in the images. None of the people depicted in the images have approved, or are sponsored by or affiliated with, either of us, Picture Stories, or any of our written impressions or commentary.
© 2026 Mike Sicher and John Sicher
Linda likes their assisted living facility in NYC.
Bruce is not really sure where they are.
They had moved to NY from Maryland
When Linda’s sister got sick and needed help.
Neither of them ever loved the city, but they made it work.
Thoughts about moving back petered out after a few years.
Five years ago, Bruce had aortic valve surgery,
And the doctors nicked the mitral valve. He almost didn’t make it.
He was in a coma and on a heart-lung machine for eight days;
Finally started coming around, but never made it all the way back to himself.
For the longest time, he thought he was back in MD with their dogs.
God, he loved those dogs. He kept asking to go out on the porch,
Get in the hammock, and watch the sun set over the bamboo
He planted on the hillside.
Everyday Linda takes Bruce for a walk. He gets agitated about clothes
So Linda has matching outfits for them both which leaves him less confused.
The staff have little jokes and names for them:
Hansel and Gretel, the Boobsey Twins, all in good fun.
They walk, but he no longer talks much. Bruce used to ramble on
Like a radio someone forgot to turn off. He loved to laugh and tell stories
About the places they traveled to, especially Salzburg, their favorite.
Remember those pastries in that cafe by the river? Linda will prompt.
Bruce compensates and says yes to everything.
This man who could fix anything, and had a hair-trigger laugh
Because so much in life just tickled him, who was a cop and then sold real estate
And knew so much about people, places, and things because he cared,
And was always up for something new, and had so many friends because
he treated everyone like they were the only people on earth… that man is mostly gone.
Gone. Terrible word to describe someone still here.
Arthur once had an assignment in Sophomore English
To write a descriptive passage using sensory images.
He wrote about a family hiking trip to
Asheville, NC, and a rainstorm they encountered.
It went something like this:
Sheets of rain scrolling across an October field,
Desiccated leaves swirling like manic starlings,
While everyone is inside a snug cabin in front
Of a roaring fire, drinking hot chocolate, and
Playing Monopoly while sitting on a think braided rug.
Shirley, his girlfriend then, wife now, said, Jesus, Arthur,
Thank God you are an engineering major.
Arthur and Shirley are in the city now
And caught in a nasty rain. Shirley thought
Of that overwrought passage, and how it differs
From the reality of what they are enduring, to wit:
They were completely unprepared and had to pay $60
For two of these ridiculous ponchos at a Times Square “grift” shop;
They have been splashed by a truck roaring through
A puddle of oil slick run off;
There are no taxis, and Uber pricing suddenly went through the roof.
Arthur was poked in the eye with an umbrella,
And a horizontal wind launched his hat like Artemis II.
Her hair and shoes are ruined, and she just might start crying.
And what does that freakiin’ idiot of a husband do:
With a big smile on his face, he grabs a lamp pole and says,
Honey, I’m Gene Kelly, and he starts singing in the ring.
Jesus, I hope he gets arrested.
In Central Park, for a pretty good fee, you can endow a bench
With a personalized inscribed plaque. That’s what Tommy did
When Margie passed away 10 years ago.
He comes here most weeks to make sure that the bench is clean,
And the surrounding area is free of trash and debris.
Sometimes he brings a book she liked, usually Twain or Vonnegut.
He reads a bit, people watches, enjoys seeing the kids and dogs play.
When the park thins out as the moms and kids go home,
And there are only a few joggers here and there,
He is ready for his magic time. He discovered about seven years ago
That if he stands and grips the plaque with Margie’s name, she is there.
On the bench.
He knows it’s crazy. But it isn’t. And they talk about their kids and the grandkids
some of whom Maggie never had a chance to know;
And they laugh about how naive they were:
Oh my goodness, remember the time we ….
People look at him talking and laughing at an empty bench and hurry on by.
That’s OK. He’s never told a soul, not even his kids.
He could not stand the rolling eyes and their looks of pity.
Is it selfish to keep her for himself? Sure, but this is so special.
Who gets a chance like this? And he is afraid that if he shares this,
The bubble might burst.
He knows that someday his park visits will be done.
He will have arranged with his kids for a plaque on this same bench,
and then he’ll tell them his secret in his will.
Maybe he and Margie will see them again that way.
Scars tell stories. When young, misadventures that become family lore
Leave clues on flesh: the accidental closing of a car door on a brother's hand,
Wrestling with a friend and getting a hand caught in his braces,
Falling off a forbidden garage roof.
As we age: perhaps a few sports mishaps, some carelessness, a dare gone wrong …
And then later: the consequences of rationalizations and bad choices,
Or when lady luck looked away:
An appendicitis in a very remote part of a third world country.
Walter here, once an athlete, high school tennis, BMOC,
just wants to play tennis again. But it’s hard to even talk the talk
When you can’t walk the walk.
He could have lost some weight, ate healthier, stretched more, cross trained.
Three months ago he would wake up with his knees whispering to him,
But after one flight of stairs,
They would be Axl Rose concert level screaming on each step.
So the knife, recovery, rehab, pain management.
It has not been Christmas morning.
(Wife Ann says, no sir, not for me. I’ll use a cane and a bucket of Advil.
I’m not going through that.)
Walter looks to Billie Jean King who was back on the court 4 months
After double knee replacement surgery.
He thinks that if she can do it, he certainly can. Of course, he sort of skims past the
Part where she worked out 2.5 hours five days a week, and was in great shape before.
So Walter does his rehab, wears his Roger Federer hat for good luck,
Has a date circled on is calendar for when he might be back on the court ….
Maybe that’s all he needs? But if not, he has his scars,
Which are pretty good for a story or two.
Unpleasant subjects are often expressed in euphemisms,
Perhaps a holdover from a more polite age.
Death and dying have the most.
“Oh, sweetheart, Grammy is now with the angels”.
“Rover is in doggy heaven.”
Bodily functions have almost as many;
Ladies powder their noses. Men need to see a man about a horse.
I think that the euphemisms for porta potty companies are pretty funny.
The company I work for is Callahead. There is also
Uncle John, Seek-a-Seat, Pot of Gold, and even one called Willy Make it.
The other day, a kid pointed to our truck and asked his mom
What we were doing. She said it was a “poo poo” truck,
And we were helping workers who had to go to the bathroom
While working on construction. Good for her.
Honest and accurate.
Too many folks are so pleased with themselves
When they tell a joke that we have heard 1000 times,
Such as, “Hey man, I guess that’s a pretty shitty job.”
That’s OK; we don’t judge. We look at them dead pan,
and they get the message.
My kids are young, and I thought I would use the old term “honey dipper”
when they ask about my job. But my wife said that was stupid,
And would only confuse them. She said, “When the time is right,
Just tell the truth, that’s something you’re good at.”
So at that point, I will proudly tell them I am a pump truck driver,
And a darned good one, too. If the shoe fits……
Anyway, I guess I deal with a commodity that insures pretty good job security.
When my coworkers and I gather around the gee-dunk wagon during a work break,
We talk about the job, the bosses, the weather, the Yanks … the usual stuff.
But one of the main topics these days? Robots.
Because in a factory somewhere in China, a robot is building a robot that might take my job.
Now you might think that we all hate the idea of being replaced by some R2D2,
And we do, sort of. But, in the industry with the most accidents -- over 170,000 last year --
And over 1000 deaths, having a piece of tin to do the really dangerous stuff is not such a bad plan.
I was a skinny kid of 17 when I started carrying a hod and mud for the brickies. Hard, dirty job.
I learned a lot, kept my mouth shut, and got strong. But even with steel toed boots, gloves,
helmets, ear and eye protectors, high-vis vests, and all kinds of safety protocols, I got busted up
Now and then. I missed work a dozen times, and ended up in the hospital twice:
Nothing too serious, thank God.
Finally got a chance to lay block and then brick and was on my way. I could lay a course pretty fast,
And my stuff was always level and plumb. Then, got trained and earned the safety certification
To run heavy machinery, because that is where the money is. And also where the danger is.
Got a job for my cousin Jax, but on one site,
He was working in a trench when a Bobcat slid in on top of him.
He’ll live, but he will never walk again. He is a great guy, and is not bitter, which is amazing.
The union said they would probably be able to get him a desk job.
So I was thinking: could a robot have done what he was doing,
And maybe Jax could have done something safer?
Maybe yes, maybe no.
When a “worker down” alarm goes off at a site, we stop what we are doing
And rush over to see if we can help in some way, hoping and praying that maybe it’s not a big deal.
When it’s bad, it can really mess you up, especially if you know the guy well, and maybe his family.
You might have gone to his wedding. Please, Lord, I do not want to go to his funeral.
But if it was a robot, we would be saying, let’s take five and grab a cup of Joe, maybe humming
“Another one Bites the Dust”.
A robot will never need a 911,
But can you ever trust a robot to have your back?
JFK was a master napper, world class, NBA, Olympic gold medal,
Maybe GOAT. Would lie down every day after lunch and tell his staff not to
Disturb him except for an emergency. (A bit subjective that, don’t you think?)
The American Heart Association says napping is one of the best things
You can do for your health, and that’s why all companies allow their employees
To sleep for 20-30 minutes (maximum benefit) every day after lunch, right?
Oh wait, sorry, that’s the Japanese. Well, maybe someday we’ll catch on.
Gary here, worn out and tired, is grabbing some Vitamin Z on his way home.
The white noise of the subway, the hoody over his eyes… he has it down.
Only once did he sleep past his stop when he woke up in East Jesus.
He, too, is a master napper. They kid him at work because he once
Fell asleep with a sandwich in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
He just finished his shift as a baggage handler, aka ramp rat, at JFK.
Pressure job: he and his crew get blamed if the plane is not unloaded and loaded
In time to meet the schedule. The work is back breaking: bending in tight cargo spaces,
Lifting, lifting, lifting, sometimes in searing heat or bone rattling cold; in snow, rain, sleet, and hail,
They must deliver the cargo, which sometimes does include the U.S. mail
In big freakin’ sacks that would collapse a camel.
He feels no connection with the owners who carefully pack their bags
With precious possessions and weigh them on bathroom scales making sure they come in at 49 pounds.
(Honey, it’s only 45 lbs; let’s cram some more in.) They drop off the bags,
Hoping for the best, and the impersonal lumps of plastic and metal and canvas, some with cute signage,
like “please handle like your mother is inside this bag,” head down the ramp to the TSA scanners,
And then to his crew, and finally, to the plane; all in 30-60 minutes.
The pay is shit, but he likes working three 12-hour shifts which lets him spend time with his family:
Wife, baby, and two dogs, Hansel and Gretel. He could fly for free, with certain conditions,
And although he never has the time for that, it is good bragging fodder,
Along with, “I work at JFK as a Fleet Service Agent”. That’s actually his formal job title.
The best part of the job is being part of a team that works well together and has each others’ backs.
They have their own in-jokes, such as “fragile is French for throw harder”.
And, “designer bags are special because they bounce higher.”
So, Gary naps, and don’t you dare wake him or next time you fly,
Your bag might end up in a landfill in Scranton, PA.
Karma is a bitch.
Passenger pigeons were so numerous
In the 19th century that when a flock flew overhead,
It would block out the sun,
Like an eclipse, for up to an hour.
Sudden darkness descending…
Holly and Bob, once life and light,
Are now both in a very dark place.
I took this picture when they visited me
In New York before they left.
God, we had a great time.
Never laughed so much.
Holly was off to an adventure in Spain,
Bob to return to active military duty
In the Middle East, exact location
Classified (Sorry can’t tell you).
Holly was on a tour bus when the driver fell asleep.
The bus crashed through the guard rail
And tumbled down a 75 foot ravine.
Three people died, and many were hurt:
Concusions, broken bones, lacerations.
Holly had not a scratch, not a bruise,
Her EEG was perfect.
But they could not get her to wake up.
She was finally medivacked to Johns Hopkins.
Bobby was working at his assigned
Base when Iranian drones blew up the world,
And twelve soldiers, including Bob,
Were injured. Some returned to active duty
After a few weeks. Some a bit longer. Some never.
One had a one way ticket to Dover. (RIP, soldier)
Bobby has “a traumatic brain injury”,
From the blast concussion,
How permanent no one knows.
He, too, is in coma, flown back to Walter Reed.
I have visited them both and left
Blown up copies of this picture by their beds.
Their parents, wrecked, bereft, dying inside,
Try to seem happy, around their kids.
Their Dad is at Hopkins, Mom at Walter Reed.
The parents each, and in their own way,
Sing and pray and read and massage.
The doctors try everything, and the fMRIs
Show that the brains are alive and well.
They have brought in faith healers
And tried sensory stimulation…and yet…
If this were a fairy tale, they would
Both wake up at the same time
Unleashing a thunderclap of cheers, sobs,
And laughter. They would already know, somehow,
That the other was also alive and well.
And then in a month or so,
We would all be back in NYC living life to the fullest.
Sometimes stories have happy endings.
And sometimes they don’t.
I kid my daughter that she’s not spoiled,
Just a bit past the “Use By date”.
An exasperated “Daaad!” Is her response.
Even if we did have the resources
To spoil her, that’s not who she is.
She’s 14, has a big heart, and
Is very empathetic and passionate.
Right now the plight of homeless keeps her
Up at night.
Her mother and I never dismiss or diminish
The particular cause she is consumed by.
We are proud that she has such fervor
And encourage her to become involved.
Recently she challenged me, “Did you know….”
And then followed that with a long litany
Of facts and stats.
And I did not know. I had no idea that
In the last 20 years, NYC has lost over 400,000
Affordable housing units, and that one third
Of the homeless have jobs but cannot afford housing,
Or that one in eight kids in public schools are homeless.
So, we asked her, what would she like us to do?
We work hard, have good values,
And help where and when we can.
She wanted us to let her spend one night
On the street to experience what it must be like.
Her mother and I looked at each other in shock.
I wanted to tell her that will happen the same day
They tear down Yankee Stadium and grow corn there.
But we managed to tell her “no” a bit more diplomatically.
OK then, she said, using all of her 14-year-old charm,
And a smile that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame,
How about you spend a night on the street?
And ... well you can see for yourself.
Once when I was young and traveling in Spain with my family,
I met Miguel Indurain, arguably the greatest cyclist of all time:
Five consecutive Tour de France wins and many other
Championships. And no drugs, no scandals.
He trained so ferociously that his resting pulled rate
Was 28 beats per second. One beat every two seconds. Crazy!
But more importantly, he was such a good guy, loved by all,
Even his opponents. He was a gracious winner and
Great sport and sportsman. He lived humbly, and went out
Of is way to help others. I was able to talk biking with him for an hour.
I mean, here was the GOAT of biking just sitting around chatting
At a cafe with some kid. Who does that!
So my goal was to train hard, get on a team with a good
Sponsor, and get paid to do what I loved: race bicycles.
And I was pretty good. Won a few junior races, got to travel,
Was a domestigue on an OK team, and started to get some
Love from the biking press.
But then, long story short: found out I was not as good as I thought,
And started doping to make up for my shortcoming and got caught.
Was banned for three years, fired from my team, and just gave up.
Now I have my own personal tour. If I thought pro racing was painful,
Well, that is nothing compared to this.
The pavement here is not treacherous cobblestones like Paris-Roubaix,
But there are some, as well as more potholes than a WW1 battlefield.
Instead of thousands of cheering fans along the side of the roads,
Here we have pedestrians for whom a traffic light is a suggestion.
The Uber and taxi drivers hate bikes, run lights,
Change lanes with no signal (oh that lever is a turn signal?),
And think that they own the roads.
And of course, there are also 30-40 deliveries a day
In all kinds of weather,
Working a 10-hour shift, getting paid about $22.00 per hour.
So if sometimes at night I have dreams about cruising down
The Champs-Elysees in a yellow jersey on a beautiful summer’s day,
Maybe you can understand.
Helen and Mildred, mothers-in-law,
Different as chalk and cheese,
Have become fast friends. They talk every day,
Kids and grandkids stuff mainly,
But also thoughts and hopes previously
Only shared with their mates.
Here they are on the crosstown bus,
Back from hair day at the
Salon du Jour on the West Side.
They still have a bit of vanity,
And this outing every two weeks,
Which includes lunch, makes them feel
Like sashaying down Fifth Avenue.
The late husbands now only inhabit
Silver frames on end tables that, absent their
Weekly dusting, are all but invisible.
And any idea of sharing their remaining time
Getting used to the quirks and odors and habits
Of someone new is anathema. They would sooner
Join a cult, shave their heads, and wear burlap.
So after a good life with work and travel,
Vacations and adventures, they are now happy
Just to be appreciated for their wisdom by their kids,
And celebrated for the joy they give and receive from their grand kids.
No more travel to obscure locations (with terrible health care)? Great!
Not interested in the latest exercise fad? No thank you!
They enjoy what they can do and do not regret what they can’t.
To paraphrase an old saying: their families are the sky;
All else is weather.
Please, I fix your earring, and listen carefully:
Do not look around.
There are some ICE agents in the next street.
I am not sure if they are coming here.
Just keep smiling, but do not laugh.
We have to carefully go back into
This museum and find a crowd,
Maybe the Van Gogh area.
Maybe a place to hide,
But not the bathrooms.
They know that trick.
You must do what we have talked about:
Act normal. Show no fear.
We have papers, we are legal.
But that does not matter
When one comes from Ecuador.
Or anyplace that is not here.
Maria has been in detention
For six months for a speeding ticket.
So take my arm, and look at me
And the exhibits. Only.
One is never safe
In the United States anymore.
I got to tell you, Josh, I am not looking forward to this.
Honey, we’ve talked about this, and I admit that my parents are a bit unusual, but they are really not so bad.
Really Josh? Then why do I feel judged every time we’re together.? All those sotto voce snarky little comments. Do they really think I can’t hear them?
I know, I know, sweetheart, but it is hard for them, too. They are not used to someone as strong and independent as you. They really are trying. I hope you can meet them half way.
Half way to where? Crazyville? They make me feel as wanted as a zit on prom night.
OK, I admit they are a bit set in their ways, but they are really good, loving people…..deep down.
Deep down, like under a truck load of bull shit? Josh, why can’t they just accept the fact that I am different, I think differently, and I do not want to live my life the way they do? I am fine with their weirdness. I don't judge them!
Honey, let’s keep this in perspective, OK? They are fine with you being a Catholic, even though they were hoping I would marry a Jewish girl. They are OK with you being a Libertarian, even though they thought Obama was the best thing ever. They are OK with you not being sure you want kids. And, they are even OK with the idea of us moving to California.
Yes, but Josh, they cannot get over the fact and that I. DO. NOT. WANT. TO. BE. A. VEGAN!
Honey, what can I do?
Here is what you can do, Josh. After we leave, and after I’ve politely choked down a few mouthfuls of her latest green glop, you can take me out to an insanely expensive steakhouse. Deal?
Deal.
Betty and Hame grew up around here:
married, ran a business, had kids….
All in all, a pretty good life.
When the kids were in college,
They moved to a three bedroom house
with a yard in Forty Fort, PA.,
a quieter life where their money
Would not wither and die.
And now they are back for a visit
For the first time in 25 years.
They had kept in touch with some friends
Who sent updates and pictures,
So they knew the lay of the land.
And, of course, like all ex-New Yorkers,
They still read the Times.
They pass by the deli that they
Owned and ran, no real point going in.
And the building they lived in is
The building they lived in,
Really no more than that.
They are not that nostalgic,
Neither happy nor sad,
Not judging, just looking around.
They laugh that the playground,
Once littered with needles and vials,
Is now a green Playspace named
for a politician who is in jail.
But, they feel assaulted as they walk down the streets:
E-bikes, like swarms of giant bees
(Hame, look out!),
The skunk smell of pot everywhere,
And so many people talking on phones,
Always looking ahead but not seeing,
Bumping, jostling, colliding.
And the prices? How much did you say?
Why, in Forty Fort I can buy five for that price!
Two days later, they sit on the bus.
They are pensive and tired, digesting it all.
I’m sure glad we went, says Hame. How ‘bout you?
Betty sighs, and thinks for a spell. She says,
OK, it was loud, a bit scary, so expensive, and fast.
But MOMA, and Broadway, the Highline…
Plus all of the things we had no time to see.
And the food! Great food everywhere,
From all over the world, on every block.
Hame, we have a lot of thinking to do.
Could we even afford to move back?
Smile and be open and oh so polite
Look in their eyes, and engage just a bit.
Say something funny with maybe a joke.
(She’s been taught how to do this)
And all that she wants is for
You to take something for free.
Her name is Lenore and she thought she’d look cute
If she put a white heart on the side of her nose
And wear her new fleece, that cost quite a bit.
She’s practiced in front of a mirror for days,
And all that she wants is for
You to take notice of her.
And when she goes back to the store to get more
They tell her she has to do better this time.
She’s asked if they’d give her some small paper plates
And napkins and they say, yeah, in your dreams.
And all that she wants is for
Them to just burst into flames.
Her feet hurt, her make up will run if it rains,
She’s thirsty and won’t have a break for an hour.
The pizza gets cold and there’s grease on the tray.
And people just nod with dismissive half smiles,
And all that she wants is to
Sit on the sidewalk and cry.
At the end of the day when she goes to get paid,
It’s always the same joke, well how bout a pie?
And she wants to jab someone right in the eye
With the fork she’s been using all freakin day
And all that she wants is to
Never see pizza again.
Chess.
Great game, great history.
Jason and me, we play a pretty serious game,
And right now, the stakes could not be higher.
Because today the winner dies.
We met at the oncology unit at Mt Sinai
Where we were both diagnosed with
incurable stage four cancers:
His pancreatic; mine glioblastoma.
We both liked chess, so we’d get up a game
Now and then. Talk cancer shit.
Turns out we didn’t want treatment,
The pain and indignity that
Might give us a few extra months.
We don’t have families, and neither of us
Thought we could do ourselves in.
So this is the plan. The winner gets
Injected with a high dose of insulin
Which we both carry in our coats.
Good night, lights out! See you soon!
And the loser? We pooled our money
For a one-way ticket to a resort in Venezuela
So the loser can at least live out his last
Shitty, horrible days by the ocean.
With room service.
Jason looks up at me and says:
What is wrong with you?
That is the worst idea for a story
You’ve ever had. And you’ve had
Some bad ones. But only an idiot
Would believe something like that.
Now, will you please just shut the fuck up and play chess!
Maggie died two years ago today.
Bad cancer, long odds.
Memorial was the best
Hospital for what she had.
Amazing doctors, great care.
And she fought like hell.
Great attitude, mad at the cancer.
Her enemy, she said.
I will give no quarter.
But…..that freakin’ “but”.
Like a shadow over
Everything good.
Anyway, this was one
Of “our” places, here by the East River.
But she’d never let me call it a river.
Stupid name, she’d say,
And then she’d yell at the water:
You. Are. Not. A. River.
You. Are. A. Tidal. Estuary.
Cracked me up.
People around us quietly
Walked away. Mad woman,
I would hear them say.
She just laughed.
Her favorite food was
Chana masala: chickpeas
In a tomato curry sauce.
She loved it, I hated it.
But every year, I get an order
And come here and eat some.
Then I throw a little bit into
The water And yell:
You. Are. Not. A. River!
And I laugh. Because when
You are mad at God,
That’s all you can do.
When I come from Russia,
Many years ago,
They put me in
Witness protection program,
And they give me name Anna Koskas.
Da nu! Sounds like a whore!
They find small town In the Iowa.
Don’t stick out, they say. Be boring.
Don’t smile, don’t laugh.
But I say “nyet!”
That’s how I was before.
To hide, I need to be different.
So I come to New York
Where anything goes.
Dress flashy, be happy, be loud.
Make friends, have lovers.
No one expect mousy little
Ivana Katrovo to be like that.
Who notices butterfly
If you are hunting caterpillar?
When people see me
with my bundles of bottles,
I get all kinds of reactions.
Some blatant, like the doorman
Who told me to move along.
Or the unhoused man
Who yelled at me to get
the Hell off his turf.
Or the dog walker who sneered
And cursed me for scaring his dogs.
They have no idea that I am
a professor at Columbia
Doing research on
Eckman’s theory of micro expressions.
From a camera hidden
In the bottles, I am recording
the flickers of emotions
That cross peoples’ faces
When they see me.
Even when people think
They give nothing away,
Everyone has one of seven “tells”:
Disgust, anger,
Fear, sadness, happiness,
Surprise, or contempt.
What did I learn?
That those freaking bottles
Were heavy and hard to push.
But I did return them for $50.
The rest you’ll have to read
In The Times.
Hello sir, how do we get to Yankee Stadium?
Yes, we know it is not baseball season,
But we have come from Puerto Rico
To honor my cousin, Luis Arroyo.
He played for the Yankees a 60 years ago.
I am not sure what you mean
When you say to take the 7 to the D….
I know that means subway lines,
But where do we find them?
And how long will we have to wait?
We find the subways very frightening.
We know that is not your problem,
But the noise, like an explosion,
The smell, the rats….
And everyone is so unfriendly.
In San Juan, the Tren Urbana is so clean
And everyone is friendly and polite. .
Here, it is like “The Running of the Bulls”
In Pamplona. Everyone in such a rush!
We are afraid of being trampled!
Thanks you so much for your help.
We are sorry to take up so much of your time.
You are very patient, which we find rare here.
By the way, do people tell you that you
Look like Samuel L.Jackson?
See I love to do this.
I stand in the middle of Madison Avenue
wearing a derby.
Gives me a look of dignity.
Then I look up.
Now everyone who sees me
really wants to look up.
And some do,
but this is New York ,
and most folks want to be cool
and NOT look.
And the ones who want to and don’t,
It fucks with their day a little
'cause they aren’t sure
If they are missing something.
I love this.
Better than ice cream in July.
Ever since that kid was shot
Last week, right at that table,
Business is dead….sorry,
I know I shouldn’t say that.
I heard he was a good kid.
Sent some flowers to his mom,
Went to the wake. So messed up,
What kids have to deal with.
We used to have a good morning and lunch rush,
And a smattering all through the day.
Now? It ain’t Katie that’s barrin’ the door,
But people are staying away.
So thanks for coming in. You want your usual?
Two dots and a dash? Dry rye? Black?
I got a bunch of sausage on the flat top
Going to waste. I’ll give you a bag for your dog.
I mean, I hate what happened, poor kid,
But it’s unbelievable that something
Like that happens once in 67 years
And it might be
”thanks for the memories”.
Yeah, I know we’re not “secret”.
Used to be, up until
125 years ago.
Guess the name stuck.
No, you can’t pet my dog
Anymore than you can touch me.
You like strangers touching you?.
No, didn’t think so.
It doesn’t matter if I like him.
My job is to protect him.
Like doesn’t factor in.
No one wants another ‘63.
You are free to call me names
All day, if you want. Just do
Not interfere with what I have to do.
And do not cross this line.
What happens if you do?
Sir, are you challenging
A highly trained and armed
Federal agent?
Really not a good plan.
You need to move along. Now.
And be sure to have a nice day.
And God bless America.
She is as normal
As corn in July.
But…..
When she was 6
Her dad took her to see
Singin' in the Rain.
She loved Gene Kelly’s umbrella
And asked for one for Christmas.
At 18, Mary Poppins
And The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
In the same year
Popped her mind a bit.
She now has 103
Umbrellas, all shapes,
Sizes, and colors.
When a rainy day is coming,
She carefully picks the
Just right umbrella,
And off she goes.
For hours. In the rain.
But in all other things,
Normal as corn in July.
No one knows why she
Never moved to Seattle.
I know it’s stupid meeting like this.
But grandma will ask
If I ever “see you”
And I don’t want to lie.
So how is she?
Not so good, cuz.
In the wheelchair full time.
Says she has more pains
Than a window.
Sounds like her. Funny.
Wish Pops was still around…
Yeah, me, too.
Trudy helps some, and I stop by.
But it’s going bad,
Like quicksand bad.
And the meds? So expensive!
What can I do?
Not much. Maybe a little cash
Now and then.
Some prayers never hurt.
Is she still mad at me?
So I should not stop by?
Sorry, but I guess
she’s never forgiven you for
Becoming a cop.
You know, I’m glad Bobby went to college
So he could get a good job.
And when he and Becky married and moved to Hoboken
and had the grand kids?
Terrific.
But sometimes I wonder what it would have been like
If he took over the business and we were together for a while.
Then Helen and I could have moved to Florida,
And maybe she would have had some good years there
before she passed.
But you know what? It’s OK. It’s all OK.
Is that Lucas again?
Yep.
Who’s Lucas?
He was on the job in Tower One on 9/11.
Got out but left some of himself behind.
Hurt?
Some. A month in the hospital.
Went home, but kept dreaming
Of walls closing in,
So he hit the streets.
We see him here about every 2-3 weeks.
Harmless. Not a drunk, not a user.
We cut him some slack, but people complain.
So what’s the move?
Let’s make our rounds,
And if he’s still here when we circle back,
We’ll get him some coffee
And send him on his way.
Man, talk about “there but for the grace of God…..”
My wife elbows me in the ribs.
See that guy in the yellow hoody?
He’s like James-Dean-cool.
Let’s go over and walk by,
Maybe pretend to ask directions,
So we can see him up close.
She grabs my hand and starts to pull
Me across the street.
I gently resist and politely decline.
Come on!
Don’t be such a mud stick!
It’ll be fun, we’ll laugh later.
Take a chance!
I disengage and retrace my steps.
Really? You’re just going to walk away?
Once again, I have to do everything.
This is why you never have any good stories.
Sometimes you are such a pathetic loser!
As I look back before I enter
The adjacent coffee shop,
Yellow hoody gives me a wink.
I order an espresso and wait
For the storm to run its course.
Maybe I should order a double.
I reach to help you. Your hand on a cane.
The hand that once climbed trees
And picked wild flowers, that kneaded dough
And baked rugelach so good it made me cry.
The hand that I held so tight
When you said “Yes!”,
And that held the flowers while I placed
A ring on your other hand.
The hand that held our babies,
And our babies’ babies, and wiped tears
And changed and fed and cuddled
Like there would be no tomorrow.
And soon there will be no tomorrow
As the mortar and pestle of age
grinds us Into dust.
But not yet. Not yet.
I am not ready to let you go.
Angels don’t dance on the head of a pin.
Never have. Ask any angel.
But fear does.
And pain,
And loss.
They dance everywhere,
And all the time.
Just ask us.
It’s not just the fear of falling and failing,
Or the symphony of morning groans,
Or the memories that circle
Around our heads but never land.
It’s just that everything we’ve become,
Is quickly becoming undone.
But angels?
Don’t look at me that way.
You don’t know me,
Even if you think you do:
You are thinking, Oh, you look just like…
An old work mate,
Or someone from a movie or TV,
Or someone from long ago and far away….
I’ve worked on this leave-me-alone-look for a long time.
It works. Fuck off.
Oh my goodness, it’s cold.
But you know what?
When it’s like this,
Cold as a landlord’s heart,
I think about Oymyakon,
A town in Siberia,
Coldest inhabited place in the world,
Where it is routinely negative 20.
So this here, 10 degrees, not so bad,
And like my Mom used to say,
There is no such thing as bad weather,
Only bad clothes.
So I deal with it. But, good Lord,
I don’t have to like it.
A peregrine falcon,
Wings as grey as a gun,
Hit a pigeon at 200 miles an hour
By the river near Sutton Place.
There was a thud and feathers
Exploded like the 4th of July.
Sally saw it, eyes wide, jaw agape.
A shiver went through her like first love.
Thought that it was the coolest thing she’d ever seen.
Now she can’t stop looking up.
Trudge, ugly word.
Sounds like something you step in
And go “UGH!”
But it best describes my
Comings and goings these days.
I have memories of running the NYC Marathon
Fifty years ago, right near here.
Billy Rogers surged past Frank Shorter
And shot across the 59th Street Bridge
In a New York minute.
I was back in the pack,
Not daring to dream of glory,
Just trying to survive.
Which is what I do these days
As one day trudges into another.
Maybe “slow and steady”
Does not really win the race.
But it gets you where you’re going.
Eventually.
You know, I don’t ask for much.
A thank you here and there,
A smile, even just a nod of recognition.
And I know that some scut work
Comes with my job.
(You can’t believe the things I have had to clean up.)
But shoveling snow?
That’s the worst; it’s like I’m either invisible
Or a horrible person who makes a scrapping sound
That interferes with your phone call.
So, you know what you could do?
Don’t step on the piles I’ve made,
Or let your dog piss on them.
Wipe your feet and don’t track snow into the building.
You know what they say about common courtesy?
Only the common people have courtesy.
Sometimes he walks for miles
without taking the camera off of his shoulder.
His back hurts and he is cold/hot/wet…..
wishes he had brought other/better gear.
Thinking about his wife/daughter/friends.
His brother just moved and so far so good.
His grand-daughter is in a new school:
also good so far.
He’s hungry and stops for a snack.
Bag of chips. It will do until dinner.
New place on 63rd. Hope it’s good.
Sometimes he gets lucky,
he’s in the right place at the right time.
Preparation meets opportunity.
All those old sayings.
And this time: Kazan!
Bubbles catching light and shadow,
makes them look like Yankee pin stripes.
In a freakin’ bubble! Stripes in a bubble!
Plus the cute kid and the dad,
Both in motion, reaching, playing.
And the light!
The amazing light and shadows.
He’s practically fizzing with excitement.
Hoping he doesn’t blow it.
He can’t wait to see it on the PC,
Can’t wait to show his wife!
Because THIS is what
The walking and aching and soreness
Are all about.
And tomorrow, he’ll try again.