poem a day / about my day / day3 t'day
prior poem-a-days: 1, 2
this is a very 'how Boston of me' poem. on the heels of one 'bout Wal-tham, no less. i'm a Masshole now. it's for real. (have you seen me drive? i'm aggro-anxious carpool mum. drunk punks, come crawl into my Wire-Forester...)
5.5.10 (a silly rough one, désolée )
Between Dunkies drink counter and napkins-land a man
meets my eyes, letting me know through my still life
masque that he's been watching me. i meet
his gaze with as much animation as i greet
the straw dispenser. Not interested today,
people watching to do, fast-paced poems to lame.
A white haired lady waits to cross the street, a handle of bleach
showing through her plastic bag. Is she off to brighten summer
tennis outfits, fix herself a drink? She's sportin' bright pink, perhaps
she doesn't know the water ban's lifted. Boston, you don't need
to mix bleach with dishes anymore. The pre-apocalyptic
symptoms in the heat give some a "chaos boner." Fear not,
the NStar man (i overheard) checking a nearby gas leak
is jay-walking now. We're still going to hell, we're out of undies
at this point. The truck in front of me has "Lost Plate"
followed by its number sharpied on its back doors. I shake
my head at the surreal/chutzpah, shake coins for the toll
while CD's that shouldn't exist (in my possession) croon, cajole.
*
Post- pow wow about our broken toy parade, i wrestle my cat
to brush her back, blog and write and blog some more. i am art-xhausted
and nothing else to do. My first world problem, productivity.
this is a very 'how Boston of me' poem. on the heels of one 'bout Wal-tham, no less. i'm a Masshole now. it's for real. (have you seen me drive? i'm aggro-anxious carpool mum. drunk punks, come crawl into my Wire-Forester...)
5.5.10 (a silly rough one, désolée )
Between Dunkies drink counter and napkins-land a man
meets my eyes, letting me know through my still life
masque that he's been watching me. i meet
his gaze with as much animation as i greet
the straw dispenser. Not interested today,
people watching to do, fast-paced poems to lame.
A white haired lady waits to cross the street, a handle of bleach
showing through her plastic bag. Is she off to brighten summer
tennis outfits, fix herself a drink? She's sportin' bright pink, perhaps
she doesn't know the water ban's lifted. Boston, you don't need
to mix bleach with dishes anymore. The pre-apocalyptic
symptoms in the heat give some a "chaos boner." Fear not,
the NStar man (i overheard) checking a nearby gas leak
is jay-walking now. We're still going to hell, we're out of undies
at this point. The truck in front of me has "Lost Plate"
followed by its number sharpied on its back doors. I shake
my head at the surreal/chutzpah, shake coins for the toll
while CD's that shouldn't exist (in my possession) croon, cajole.
*
Post- pow wow about our broken toy parade, i wrestle my cat
to brush her back, blog and write and blog some more. i am art-xhausted
and nothing else to do. My first world problem, productivity.