On rainy days I look up poems set in Seattle, then look back at the rain set against the window
I imagine the water was carried here from the shores of their bay across Pike Place, through Belltown, in buckets they use to carry Pacific salmon off fishing boats, or in lidded Styrofoam bowls used to take out clam chowder
I practice walking from parking lot to book store without the aid of an umbrella like how their locals do, somehow cool with getting wet, unhurried as they sip their coffees black
I renounce sugar packets and follow suit: bitter coffee, rain, toasting to this combination forged on their puddled streets that see more poets per square mile than anywhere else in the country
Magicians can have Vegas, its illusions Asians, San Francisco and its gold bridge
I think I should just have this coffee, and this rainy day as the poem it is.
She was a girl called Chowder, Hopes hanging on her heart And roses in her window. Written up to as much as she thought she was, She let go, Let the blows take her back to the Days on the beach-- The lake. Her age too young, But too confident to see An impending reality Of ultimate misery. Every night she puts her feelings away And every day she unpacks them again-- Hanging the hopes on her heart And the roses in her window. Claiming what she had She dreamed, She flew! Like a bird she was away Where the cold no longer persisted, Away from where he hunted. Out alone she breathed heavy, Ready to start afresh, Winning hearts yet wondering why, And downing more drafts than healthy. Again she enters into the memory A kiss On the beach At the lake.
Chowder-- Return not to the past you dreamt of leaving. Enter into the future with hopes hanging on your heart. **** the rips he caused on your heart. Water the roses in the open dimmed window. Heap a load of joys in your life. Claim what is yours and what was never his.