(no subject)
Clearly I cannot keep any promise that I write.
Today I was surprised
Waiting for the Rain
When I walk outside I can smell that it is going to rain.
Stop at the café, buy a coffee
the sweet taste a benediction, a kiss.
I leave. My feet scuff the concrete.
There on a park bench is a boy
sitting. I think maybe he is waiting
for someone, something, just as I am waiting
(pour one cream, two sugars) for a bus or the rain.
I take a seat, down the lane from the boy
and sip my coffee.
These benches are rooted in the concrete,
sucked to the ground like lips in a kiss.
It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed
and before that I’d long been waiting
for romance. I knew nothing concrete
about love, I knew no better than to give it free rein.
This I recall: he tasted of coffee
and he smelled nervous, this boy
who still now is my only definition of Boy.
That love was more star-crossed than -kissed.
(Juliet, in my mind, is coughing
up blood as she is waiting
for Romeo, waiting to cede her reign.)
Disconcerted I stare down the concrete
and finally something happens that is concrete:
he is not alone now on his park bench, this boy.
A girl, her eyes the color of rain.
I watch them as they kiss.
This is why he was waiting.
I swallow a gulp of hot coffee.
It is bitter despite its sugar, this coffee
and hard to swallow, like liquid concrete.
I look away from the park bench, weighting
my options. How is it that boys
always look so handsome when they kiss?
How is it that love seems so confident in its reign?
I can’t wait any longer. I turn my back to the boy
and the girl, kissing on their bench in the concrete.
A drop. I look up. Into my coffee cup falls rain.
It's rough. It's not done. I felt it this morning and finished it tonight. I can't run from writing.
Today I was surprised
Waiting for the Rain
When I walk outside I can smell that it is going to rain.
Stop at the café, buy a coffee
the sweet taste a benediction, a kiss.
I leave. My feet scuff the concrete.
There on a park bench is a boy
sitting. I think maybe he is waiting
for someone, something, just as I am waiting
(pour one cream, two sugars) for a bus or the rain.
I take a seat, down the lane from the boy
and sip my coffee.
These benches are rooted in the concrete,
sucked to the ground like lips in a kiss.
It’s been a long time since I’ve kissed
and before that I’d long been waiting
for romance. I knew nothing concrete
about love, I knew no better than to give it free rein.
This I recall: he tasted of coffee
and he smelled nervous, this boy
who still now is my only definition of Boy.
That love was more star-crossed than -kissed.
(Juliet, in my mind, is coughing
up blood as she is waiting
for Romeo, waiting to cede her reign.)
Disconcerted I stare down the concrete
and finally something happens that is concrete:
he is not alone now on his park bench, this boy.
A girl, her eyes the color of rain.
I watch them as they kiss.
This is why he was waiting.
I swallow a gulp of hot coffee.
It is bitter despite its sugar, this coffee
and hard to swallow, like liquid concrete.
I look away from the park bench, weighting
my options. How is it that boys
always look so handsome when they kiss?
How is it that love seems so confident in its reign?
I can’t wait any longer. I turn my back to the boy
and the girl, kissing on their bench in the concrete.
A drop. I look up. Into my coffee cup falls rain.
It's rough. It's not done. I felt it this morning and finished it tonight. I can't run from writing.