Saturday, May 25, 2013


VI. (continued)

May 25, morning

Reading like this
means so much to me
you can't imagine

We don't have room for
your every plaything
You'll have to leave some

These are not private follies
if we share them
with trash or tax collectors

I still drive by her old house
near the bus stop, hear
her name when I sneeze

We wanted to place our bets
on the proper horses
but somehow got it wrong

Was he serious with his shit
about self-reliance—how
did she put up with him

Fantasies of Dover Beach
and Mont Blanc are
forcing their way to the fore

What I can’t forget
is rum and lemon
in a cup that summer

On a balcony on a backstreet
he sat with his notebook
tapping a tune with his pen

There should be parks for people
like you to congregate
by the river if you must

Whenever I enter the museum
I imagine I see her
standing at the counter, watching

Strange that in all this time
you never counted your money
just hid it in books you'd read

If he's playing possum
I can't tell—in this light
a fake is as good as real

I'd like to test-drive it
one more time then
forget all about your wife

The yard looks good from here
do the gardenias suggest
anything to you, some sadness

Lock up the liquor cabinet
Untangle that tackle
I thought I told you to take a jar

If they're not beetles then
I'd like to know what they are
The mattress is seeping, she said

Special arrangements can be made
if you insist—she's going
for a swim unless you invite him

I’m tired of eating breakfast
Let's call it something else
OK, you go first

©Donald Brown 2010/2013

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