here's a poem I wrote today
3/02/05
Five in the afternoon
& I’m half-loaded,
swaying at the stoplight
on University and College.
Traffic churns past.
Now and then, and always welcome,
a snatch of melody
drifts from a passenger window
unrolled & with an elbow
propped on the seal.
From wrist to palm
& then nails painted
and, finally, a cigarette
snugly slumped
between lips upturned & hardly parted.
Glimpse of the driver
through the streaked windshield--
red hair whipped
into a wild halo,
lightning glow
of a freckled face
lost in laughter.
This goddamn light will stay green forever.
So, I think about crossing
against traffic.
To hell with it!
And hesitantly
I stumble into the intersection
to stare down the cars racing.
A Ford Taurus packed with college kids
(too perfect right now,
esp. keeping in mind
my red sweatshirt.)
But here it comes
and there it goes,
mindless of its easy significance.
Life brims with moments like these.
And who am I,
or rather why should I,
protest?
Even though I feel like hell,
or at least my body does.
Otherwise
it’s springtime and gorgeous
as A.P. keeps reminding me,
and the harsh throbbing
of hangover sunlight
glancing from broken bottles
finally has softened
and blurred around the edges
in keeping with
the creeping bloom
of booze in my belly.
Ridiculous at five in the afternoon
but I’m twenty years old
and there’re no less
than two (count 'em)
two beautiful women
I can call right now,
(one petite the other plump,
one blonde the other brunette)
both of whom, maybe,
I'd read this poem to.
And goddammit
and god bless them both
they’ll say they like it,
no matter if it's true.
So Berryman & Sexton & Plath,
you tired & tragic
bridge-jumpers and oven-stuffers--
on a day as everyday brilliant
as today,
what possible business
have I with you?
Five in the afternoon
& I’m half-loaded,
swaying at the stoplight
on University and College.
Traffic churns past.
Now and then, and always welcome,
a snatch of melody
drifts from a passenger window
unrolled & with an elbow
propped on the seal.
From wrist to palm
& then nails painted
and, finally, a cigarette
snugly slumped
between lips upturned & hardly parted.
Glimpse of the driver
through the streaked windshield--
red hair whipped
into a wild halo,
lightning glow
of a freckled face
lost in laughter.
This goddamn light will stay green forever.
So, I think about crossing
against traffic.
To hell with it!
And hesitantly
I stumble into the intersection
to stare down the cars racing.
A Ford Taurus packed with college kids
(too perfect right now,
esp. keeping in mind
my red sweatshirt.)
But here it comes
and there it goes,
mindless of its easy significance.
Life brims with moments like these.
And who am I,
or rather why should I,
protest?
Even though I feel like hell,
or at least my body does.
Otherwise
it’s springtime and gorgeous
as A.P. keeps reminding me,
and the harsh throbbing
of hangover sunlight
glancing from broken bottles
finally has softened
and blurred around the edges
in keeping with
the creeping bloom
of booze in my belly.
Ridiculous at five in the afternoon
but I’m twenty years old
and there’re no less
than two (count 'em)
two beautiful women
I can call right now,
(one petite the other plump,
one blonde the other brunette)
both of whom, maybe,
I'd read this poem to.
And goddammit
and god bless them both
they’ll say they like it,
no matter if it's true.
So Berryman & Sexton & Plath,
you tired & tragic
bridge-jumpers and oven-stuffers--
on a day as everyday brilliant
as today,
what possible business
have I with you?