© 2020 HePo
Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads.
Become a member
Timothy Burkmeyer at The Manhattan Opera
With the pale cracked mouth of a saint you spoke
In patterns; like all my favorite prayers,
Ave Maria, Our Father, so on.
Pray, pray, the old forbidden question.
Au revoir! Scene!
A half burnt cigarette lands at my feet.
Oh what’s it all mean? What is it to me?
The old Manhattan Opera is all filled
Up with those glowing pretty faces I love
Perfume and cologne, fur coats and bow ties.
The cool night rain douses the red embers,
I look up from it before i miss them;
The apparitions could disappear soon.
Any second! At a moments notice!
I could lose every single one of them,
And their glory, and their beauty, all gone.
Oh, but I pray, what would it be to me?
In the blink of an eye they could be light
Years away, and what would that be to me?
A Slow Heyoka
to view and add comments on poems