A new poem (a revision actually) and an older one. And, again, Matzo Ball Soup went on sale last week and for now this is where you can buy it:
www.xlibris.com/MatzoBallSoup
out of the light
among the leaves
in ear park
a photo under glass
tries to slip away
as if I am not watching
but I am
I am watching closely
smiling
hands buried in fabric
eyelids agape
like living room blinds
in june
or a wallet
at the jeweler
fly me to the moon, sinatra
You leave the market after buying a pack of Marlboro 27s. You have been smoking Camel Lights, but tonight is different. Outside you slam the top of the pack against your palm four times. You peel the plastic off, remove the silver wrapping inside, and slowly pull a cigarette to your lips. You take the Zippo out of your left pocket and strike a flame, igniting the cigarette tip to a tangerine glow. You pull the cigarette away from your face and carry it by your right hip as you walk confidently to your car. You did your job well, all will go as planned. You unlock the driver-side door and slide into the seat behind the wheel. You take one last look at the market in your mirror, then start the engine and drive away. You are five blocks away when you hear the thunderous crack. Screams swarm the rubble like furious wasps. Smoke burns the eyes of flabbergasted on-lookers. Hundreds of people stand drenched in saturated fear. You keep driving and reach for a CD. Fly me to the moon, Sinatra.
You leave the market after buying a pack of Marlboro 27s. You have been smoking Camel Lights, but tonight is different. Outside you slam the top of the pack against your palm four times. You peel the plastic off, remove the silver wrapping inside, and slowly pull a cigarette to your lips. You take the Zippo out of your left pocket and strike a flame, igniting the cigarette tip to a tangerine glow. You pull the cigarette away from your face and carry it by your right hip as you walk confidently to your car. You did your job well, all will go as planned. You unlock the driver-side door and slide into the seat behind the wheel. You take one last look at the market in your mirror, then start the engine and drive away. You are five blocks away when you hear the thunderous crack. Screams swarm the rubble like furious wasps. Smoke burns the eyes of flabbergasted on-lookers. Hundreds of people stand drenched in saturated fear. You keep driving and reach for a CD. Fly me to the moon, Sinatra.
I like your blog.I'm waiting for your new posts.
ReplyDelete- why is the wallet at the jeweler ? wasn't it at the florist?..where is the ear park ?
ReplyDelete