Archive for February, 2012

Seventh Poem in Seven/Nine Days

February 28, 2012

Advil or Wine

My neck hurts from craning
over fireplace bricks.
I’ve been painting them wine
to hide old scars.
I opt for day old Zinfandal
with a broken cork in its bottle,
instead of ibuprofen.
Miss the wine glass when I pour
before even imbibing a sip.
Burgundy liquid stains my white
counters and cabinets. For lunch
beets stained my hands, and nestled
next to my omelet
filled with greens and caramelized
onions.

Sipping wine and writing,
wrapped in my maroon sweater,
I stumble into an epiphany
of red. Is it because moon slivers
have aligned themselves with Jupiter
and Venus? Or because you come home
and doze fitfully on our couch.
Arms folded against your blue
shirt. As if you could ward off dreams
troubled by starfish or cucumbers.
Perhaps, this day dipped in red letters
is a harbinger of Mars, declaring
war on the rest of our days.
Or a war trumpet
sounding to our old souls,
Life, while it is life, sounds red.

Poem 6

February 28, 2012

Decaf

I’m in the narrowest of Starbucks.
It reminds me of a caboose.
Patrons sit solo
facing each other,
except their heads
are crooked over laptops and i-phones:
clicks away from Scrabble Finder,
Live Oaks, New Orleans,
or the Worst Dressed list
at the Oscars.

A young woman
with a purple water bottle crosses
her legs, an Asian American
rests his left hand on his keyboard,
his pinkie has a gold ring.
Forever Asian
American.
No one is with anyone here.
Two read novels.
A middle-aged woman cupping her chin
like a hard blend and a boy.

I ask the boy what he is reading.
Hunger Games, he says.
He’s not a boy, even though
his face is awash with blush.
Even though his eyebrows are infinity.
Nothing occurs to me to say.
I bite my brownie.
Don’t know how long it’s been since
I was hungry.

Poem 4

February 24, 2012

“Winter,” is too painful too post. Therefore, it is probably the only real poem of the lot so far.

Day 3 Poem

February 23, 2012

Fall

In the Greek restaurant
off the trendy district’s rump,
I eat Mediterranean.
A present for my daughter,
invokes Christmas on my table.
A book about artisan bread,
in a silver bag.
He walks in slippery with city,
an open coat, holes in his t-shirt,
and asks about falafel.
The owner sneers.
He removes some balled up
bills from his front pocket
to prove he can pay.
Falafel’s great, I said.
The owner sizes me up
out of the corner of his eye.
I tear off a nice sized piece
of pita bread.
Go ahead, I can’t eat
the whole thing.
Lettuce and sauce
spill down his hand.
He nods and chews,
orders fried fish.
The owner retreats behind
swinging doors.
The place is deserted.
He edges near me in new
confidence. Eyes my package
with indecent interest.
Been Christmas shopping?
What’d you buy?
I say it’s a cookbook.
He tells me I look fifteen years
younger than I am. Asks
where I live.
I’m married, I say.

Why don’t you wear a ring?
I’m fifty-three and would like
to be real, but my Got fat,
opens the wrong door.
Now, we’re on my body.
I sure would like to visit you,
he says percolating.
A window washer
pulls up outside. Rinses
brown film off the window.
Before I can get out of my seat,
the window washer packs up.
My foolish sandwich stays
on its plate. I rush out the door,
duck into the shop next door.
He follows me outside.
Looks to the left and right.
I hold my breath against
another kitchen counter.
He crosses the street at a diagonal.
His coat flaps.


%d bloggers like this: