- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Memory of 73rd Street
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On plastic lawn chairs that never made it to the lawn
still dormant on the porch, we realize
when all is said and done
all we have left are the dregs of a bitter brew
of excuses why it didn’t work and why we both left,
opposite and nearly identical reasons.
I tip my mug regardless, tongue searching for the remnants,
not like it’s all that addictive, just what’s left,
and there’s something enigmatically alluring in that property.
On a plastic lawn with new chairs
somehow uncomfortable and nearly identical to the last, I realize
when what’s done is done
I should have saved a sip for some night when everything aches,
not that it would have been all that soothing, just familiar,
but there is something comforting in that property.
I brew another cup on lucky nights in plastic lawn chair dreams,
taking thirsty gulps, disregarding conservation,
praying for the taste to remain on my tongue when I wake.
- COMMENTS
loserstyxover 16 years agodamn dude, I see it all and though I remain, I still long for those days, in that house, man...
twelveoonealmost 17 years agoThis shows good instincts. "plastic" "chairs" "taste" repeated variations, evoking and dismssing memories. Take a weed wacker to this, prune, organise it, you have something.
