THE SCARS OF POETRY
Empty shot glass left on the bar
whiskey gone
and now for the silence
that will walk me home,
maybe I’ll hum some old tune
or quote some poems,
perhaps it will be Edward Thomas
meeting his destiny at the “borders of sleep,”
or Stephen Spender will chat with me
about "The very great,”
I’m sure I’ll pause to ask the night questions
about the clouds above me, or memories of Frank O’Hara
may come as well, his parties and a New York City poetry long asleep,
maybe I’ll hear the sound of a pretty voice
coming down from an apartment high above,
filled with the cadence of love and beginnings,
or maybe an old line I’d forgotten
might remind me to collect my yesterdays,
regardless of all that I’ll have company
but not the kind that leaves lipstick on my cheek
and shirt but just scars across the heart.
exquisite
ReplyDelete