Near dark, white flowers like lilies glow behind blue railings,
the field too long ungrazed, unwalked.
A quietness then
hands let go, a sigh, a click
radio streams in.
Patrolling his fields
my father counts his cattle
and gathers up rhymes.
Pale face. Deep red lips.
Black balloon skirt. Umbrella.
I stare through the rain.
If we had met then
it would never have lasted.
Timing is all, see.
In a black-walled room
listening to poets reading
I order more drink.
Cannes, diamonds, champagne
eternal youth, sweet breath, kiss.
Hey! Hands off, buster.
My kettle boiling
sounds like wind from a tunnel,
a train screeching in.
The trees hold up their arms in exultation
to the drenching rain.
No comments:
Post a Comment