949: Houston Street, N.Y.
"Houston Street, N.Y."
Carolyn Baxter
That's somebody's child,
or somebody's father,
some grown brat went/left
some wino,
people would say, seeing him sitting, staring, in
hallway . . .
But i know better, 3 years ago she spoke
softly, cried, kissed
him good-bye he smiled a sardonic
smile, / years to come, only
his left shoulder where her last embrace was,
manifested an oily head with stains/holes whispering:
why'd you let her go? Every tendon move of the
years
He lifts her gently, in flurries fast, harsh/humble
softly swallowing, a wine ballerina, she disappears.
He staggers forcefully in the middle of the street,
a modern concrete dance
on the yellow line
waving a grey rag to clean my windshield for 25¢
to catch his wine ballerina,
then left her gently/make her disappear,
every tendon move of the years, sitting, staring, in the
hallway . . .
Carolyn Baxter
That's somebody's child,
or somebody's father,
some grown brat went/left
some wino,
people would say, seeing him sitting, staring, in
hallway . . .
But i know better, 3 years ago she spoke
softly, cried, kissed
him good-bye he smiled a sardonic
smile, / years to come, only
his left shoulder where her last embrace was,
manifested an oily head with stains/holes whispering:
why'd you let her go? Every tendon move of the
years
He lifts her gently, in flurries fast, harsh/humble
softly swallowing, a wine ballerina, she disappears.
He staggers forcefully in the middle of the street,
a modern concrete dance
on the yellow line
waving a grey rag to clean my windshield for 25¢
to catch his wine ballerina,
then left her gently/make her disappear,
every tendon move of the years, sitting, staring, in the
hallway . . .