"bookshop" poems
“
You are stronger than you realise.
You are crueller than you realise.
The smallest words will break your heart.
You will change. You’re not the same person you were three years ago. You’re not even the same person you were three minutes ago and that’s okay. Especially if you don’t like the person you were three minutes ago.
People come and go. Some are cigarette breaks, others are forest fires.
You won’t like your name until you hear someone say it in their sleep.
You’ll forget your email password but ten years from now you’ll still remember the number of steps up to his flat.
You don’t have to open the curtains if you don’t want to.
Never stop yourself texting someone. If you love them at 4 a.m., tell them. If you still love them at 9.30 a.m., tell them again.
Make sure you have a safe place. Whether it’s the kitchen floor or the Travel section of a bookshop, just make sure you have a safe place.
You will be scared of all kinds of things, of spiders and clowns and eating alone, but your biggest fear will be that people will see you the way you see yourself.
Sometimes, looking at someone will be like looking into the sun. Sometimes someone will look at you like you are the sun. Wait for it.
You will learn how to sleep alone, how to avoid the cold corners but still fill a bed.
Always be friends with the broken people. They know how to survive.
You can love someone and hate them, all at once. You can miss them so much you ache but still ignore your phone when they call.
You are good at something, whether it’s making someone laugh or remembering their birthday. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that these things don’t matter.
You will always be hungry for love. Always. Even when someone is asleep next to you you’ll envy the pillow touching their cheek and the sheet hiding their skin.
Loneliness is nothing to do with how many people are around you but how many of them understand you.
People say I love you all the time. Even when they say, ‘Why didn’t you call me back?’ or ‘He’s an ******* Make sure you’re listening.
You will be okay.
You will be okay."
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
At Bookshop Santa Cruz
I look at a book about the East Bay then and now
One picture strikes me: 1969 Sproul Plaza
Govener Ronald Reagan has the National Guard spray
tear gas on protesters on the steps of this Berkeley Administration Building
People run in black and white
they look like my parents
The helicopter is so close to the ground, like the Vietnam War
I was three
In the backseat of our VW Bug
My mother was driving me to Strawberry Canyon
for a swim
Then she got scared--something on the radio
We turned around
I didn't understand
She had to protect us from tear gas
We lived in a war zone
Everyone was very upset
We were attacked by our own government
Even children were fair game
An innocent frog is placed in water
If the water temperature is raised gradually
the frog will sit there until it dies
In 1980 Ronald Reagan became our President
Much to our dismay
"70% of pollution comes from trees" he had announced
as Governer, he was obviously a man of science
The vice grip clenched, the water temperature raised
as we felt around us the world becoming more
difficult as a middle class
we were supposed to wait for crumbs to fall
from the table of the rich folks
fighting over the bits like starving animals
Budgets were cut
Prices rose, wages fell or disappeared completely
We were at war
1985: I took a class in Economics in college, a UC
I learned that Supply Side Economics was
a silly idea written on a napkin at a fancy restaurant
where the fat ones eat
and the crumbs are thrown away
It was all a sham
An excuse
The vice grip tightened, the world became
more difficult
not the American Dream my parents grew up in
To be middle class was to struggle and struggle and still
not have anything
The frog began to die
Somehow we saw that
Reagan drifted away, but his ghost
remained, a respite in the 90's
Then we were at war again
Not just tear gas, but carpet bombing
Guerilla warfare in the streets of a hot arid country
Oil companies, already saturating our ground and our air with their products
Cashed in
The frog is near death
We struggle, and nothing gets better
Only a respite
At a fancy restaurant
on a napkin someone wrote
a new theory of Economics
that became like Scientology
Outgrew it's ridiculous inception
And became real
Ronald Reagan dropped tear gas
from helicopters on Sproul Plaza
and it drifted to Strawberry Canyon
where children learned to swim
But that is child's play now
the frog is about to die
I want to pull it out.
Jul 21, 2012
Jul 21, 2012 at 5:01 PM UTC
another midnight I've seen this week:
bed times have gone from books and milk
and slightly ajar doors,
to long slogs far into the early morning hours-
-did I, did I try too hard to hold your hand?
If so I didn't mean to,
maybe the excitement of being held again
made my squeeze a little too much.
-
another morning afternoon I've seen this week:
primary education routines of *get dressed
and ready for school* have been lost to
fading light showers and foaming shampoos-
-did I, did I not follow the Curtis rules?
Should I run a bookshop? Be late time and time again?
Runaway to the continent and write a novel no one wants?
Lose a wife and fall for a model?
if so, I'm sorry I'm not that.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
If I were a month, I’d be September.
If I were a day of the week, I’d be Thursday.
If I were a planet, I’d be Saturn.
If I were a sea animal, I’d be coral.
If I were a piece of furniture, I’d be a bookshelf.
If I were a gemstone, I’d be a sapphire.
If I were a flower, I’d be bougainvillea.
If I were a kind of weather, I’d be a crisp autumn wind.
If I were a color, I’d be auburn. (much like my hair)
If I were an emotion, I’d be wonderstruck.
If I were a fruit, I’d be a pomegranate.
If I were an element, I’d be air.
If I were a place, I’d be a field of wildflowers in Scandinavia or a bookshop in Northern Italy.
If I were a taste, I’d taste like sweet and bitter black tea.
If I were a scent, I’d be the smell of freshly baked goods.
If I were an object, I’d be a pencil sharpener.
If I were a body part, I’d be freckles.
If I were a song, I’d be Thoughts of Flight by Edmund.
If I were a pair of shoes, I’d be bright purple converse.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
Left bank beards
in Beat hotel rooms,
a boulangerie breakfast
down the street and to the left,
and for lunch fresh baked bread and brie.
Letters sent home to fathers and mothers
singing sweet serenades of Paris
dressed up in autumn shades,
cheques for the royalties that'll
get them to Belize to write and swoon,
chat up ladies in the early afternoon;
where hotel fees that are treble those in the 5th,
bookshop stalls that'll never be found
another closing-down-establishment myth.
They were climbing with oxygen
long before we came along,
base camp poems written under
floor lamplight right before
the eyes of others.
Jett powered prose and wine in the light
sleight-of-hand punctuation and uptight
editors looking for finer narration.
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
A whirlwind of leaves.
the warm gust on my face,
the thick smell of coffee,
a low hum,
Excitement!
conversation....
old friends chatter,
lovers reunited,
Oh me, Oh life
Let this never end.
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 12:50 PM UTC
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ ᑕOᑎT.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
When Lyn looks up, she can see
several banners; the proud white
Lily of Aurelinaea on a gold field
and a white mask and brown
lute on a crimson field, decorate
the buildings. They drape over
windows, off the high bridges,
roofs and posts.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Ah yes, today is the Song of the
Canals!" Ainhara turns to them.
"So, My Lady, where do you want
to go first? A walk around the
harbour? A ride on the canals?
A trip to the museums?"
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Hmmm..." Lyn's eyes fall
upon a small bookshop.
"I'd like to browse the book-
shop first."
"Do you not have enough
books, My Lady?"
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
"Ah-ah!" Lyn tsked. "One can
never have enough books!"
Esshi giggles again as Ainhara
rolls her eyes as her mistress
raises a hand, her finger pointing
at the sky. "To the bookstore!"
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Lyn skips over like a little girl.
"Honestly," Ainhara chuckles.
"At least she's smiling, Ainhara."
"True," Ainhara could not disagree
with her friend. To see the young
queen so carefree, dressed so plainly,
and above all happy and relaxed,
is a relief to them both. Smiling
under their veils, she and Esshi to
follow behind their young queen.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
I've said some bold words in my time -
Made tragedies of pantomime.
I've kissed some morons in my day -
Too young I thought I'll lose the hay.
I lived as the greatest lover
(Or the most pathetic, rather) -
Mad walks in the rain and letters
Oft took judgement from my betters,
Let's add to the pile morn roses,
Bookshop rushes ere it closes,
Philosophy and late night talks,
And still more mad, but sunny, walks,
Journeys on the train to Glasgow,
Two tickets to Panic!'s last show,
Bekhôled reading Thomas Hardy,
Sapphires costing a fair farthing,
And now, and then, in your study,
I'd be your debating buddy,
Then your patient, then a girl:
An embrace set you in a whirl.
Our first kiss was in tears, my love,
Our confession was at a shove,
Our first handhold was without hope,
You always said we had no scope -
And yet you'd loved me, lover mine,
Or begged for it upon my shrine,
Conceived it in my breast of stone -
You conquered, and I lost, and won.
I never spoke more equally
With any man, but now my plea
Falls down on your attentive ears
As would a rusted pair of shears.
I do not mean to **** you, love,
I meant to raise you up above
The idol that my head construed -
I've held you, never rough or rude
As loving is, but passionate
And real and true, and I, to date,
Have never felt more like a queen
Than in our kisses, sweet and keen.
And all my verses do abuse
This love of mine - I have no ruse
For I am rendered dumb by you,
And know no truth but in your view.
Sweet Uiginn's son, whom I must meet,
Swept sev'ral times from off my feet
But never truly, only now -
Why say you "No", and ask not "How?"?
Jul 16, 2024
Jul 16, 2024 at 1:17 PM UTC
Yesterday for my birthday,
I started off
with a bottle of wine...
I took the train
into town...
I had half a bitter
at the Cafe de Piaf
in Waterloo...
I went to work
for a couple of hours or so;
I had a pint after work;
I went for an audition;
after the audition,
I had another pint
and a half;
I had another half,
before meeting my mates,
for my b'day celebrations;
we had a pint together;
we went into
the night club,
where we had champagne
(I had three glasses);
I had a further
glass of vino,
by which time,
I was so gone
that I drew an audience
of about thirty
by performing a solo
dancing spot
in the middle
of the disco floor...
We all piled off to the pub
after that,
where I had another drink
(I can't remember
what it was)...
I then made my way home,
took the bus from Surbiton,
but ended up
in the wilds of Surrey;
I took another bus home,
and watched some telly,
and had something to eat
before crashing out...
I really, really enjoyed
the eve, but today,
I've been walking around
like a zomb;
I've had only one drink today,
an early morning
restorative effort;
I spent the day working,
then I went to a bookshop,
where, like a monk,
I go for a day's
drying out session...
Drying out is really awful;
you jump at every shadow;
you feel dizzy,
you notice everything;
very often,
I don't follow through.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
In the garden amongst the flowers
like a bee in a library, a bookshop
there's nectars sweet with flavors discrete
words bitter and stories magical
I see and fly by Kafka, oh there's Camus
I smell the roses and touch the lilies
knowing not how to make honey
much to see, much to read
can I drink my share, lead others here
where should I be, why cant I be
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 5:18 PM UTC
I met Grandfather at a Taiwanese bookstore.
For some reason,
We were the only ones staring
At the decrepit
Poetry section
In this, brand new
Four-story library.
He was grinning as if
The teeth in his mouth
Was real again.
And I couldn't help but
Smile with him too, this
Old man
Who stuck his hands in
His pockets and slouched
Over books just like
I once did.
Who couldn't speak a word of
English, but who
Over and over again muttered
The name "Auden,"
As to signal to me
That he knew exactly what
Was going on here.
Nodded vigorously at me—
Told me he'd met him once, before.
In a book.
Probably in Cantonese—
I wonder how it sounded to him?
I wonder how I sounded?
Peering over him
Like a sprightlier shadow,
Also muttering to himself
"Auden, Auden,"
As if trying to remember.
I think,
When I grow up,
I would like to be
An old man someday.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 8:41 PM UTC
Before even flight . . .
Landed seagull chick strides, reads,
Waddles through bookshop.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
a poet who taught college
night school ventured out
during the day to find rare
books of poetry to assign
his class to read out loud;
a small bookshop destined
to fail opened up on the
sunny north eastern corner;
selling no books at all, the
enterprising intellectual
proprietor resigned to the
inevitable but was surprised
when the poet [seldom
seen during the day & she
had never seen him before]
burst through the door &
demanded she order all the
books on a handwritten list,
shoving it in her face; so
overwhelmed she stayed
late at the bookstore on the
telephone & computer
ordering the rare & obscure
books; that night the class full
of wanna-be poets groaned in
despair at the poet telling them
to read every book on the list
& the wherewithal to find them
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 3:36 AM UTC
Acquainted with Mark,
I walk to the bookshop;
not the one with the *****
instead the neon green nightmare
where there’s nothing good to read.
It’s not so much that I’m searching
for anything in particular, but the sun
has gone down and there’s a need in me
to get out of the house and walk around
someplace that feels like someplace.
Walking past the skateboards,
(Why the **** are there skateboards here?)
I start looking for Mark.
“He doesn’t live here” they say, “He never has.”
No, he doesn’t, I gather.
The King does though,
and if I wanted to fall in love
with a vampire there, I certainly could.
But, Mark is nowhere to be found.
The Laureate of Drunkards has a room
there, but he hasn’t moved in and the
staff cannot remember the last time they
saw him.
Dr. Lovecraft and Chitulu have been known to set
up a lemonade stand now and again, but they never
stick around very long, their product is too sour
for palettes around these parts.
Regardless of this, my search continues.
Mark is not here today, but Robert Parker
has rented some space and is rooming with
Ray Chandler, down the hall from Larry Block,
sometimes they cook up some pasta and mussels
in white wine, with good bread.
Sometimes they pan fry steaks, and make home fries
drinking rye until it’s all medium rare.
It’s mysterious, how Mark became an afterthought
and we all hope he hasn’t been murdered, kidnapped,
or met with some other form of foul play.
It’s poetic really,
how Mark will come around now and again
he’s not lost or forgotten,
he’ll be waiting for me when I get home.
We’ll sit in the dark, under the lamp,
together well read his poem titled: “Poem”
and I’ll tell him that he’s better at this noir stuff
than all those other hacks.
But, for now, Mark remains…Stranded.
***
-JBClaywell
©2016 P&ZPublications
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
My tummy stood still; a statue of a stomach that paused as she passed by
to get into the used bookshop line to pay for her basket of titles and authors I'd
no idea existed, but I'd be willing to learn and read and not breathe until I had
enlisted the use of Wikipedia to find out a one fact about each of them so to break the ice
and breach that border of conversation, because I'd want to tell her in some Woody Allen
way that her eyes were nice and that Cambridge could be ours tonight if she wanted to.
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 2:28 PM UTC
I try so hard to be a poet.
I'm writing you from the back of a coffee shop napkin because it's the only place I know you might see it.
I'm smoking cigarettes just so I remember to breathe,
And filling in the blanks between them
With meaningless words
That sound like they might give me a reason
Like "romantic" and "addiction"
And sometimes
Just your name
Over and over and over
Until I'm brushing ink off my fingers and onto my new jeans.
The earth is grasping at my fingertips.
It's 2AM and I don't know how I sleep at night.
(I don't)
Some nights I lie awake and think
About how there's a universe inside of you.
I'm shooting for the moon
But I'm coming out much closer to the sun than I expected.
I lie awake and picture,
In my head,
All the ways that this can go wrong
Will go wrong
Have gone wrong
I thought we were getting better
But it's more like
We're getting older every second.
We're just pennies in pockets of good luck addicts
We were born to make a change
But instead I'm watching re-runs of lifetime at 3 in the morning.
(Nothing ever changes)
Every night I tell myself
That tomorrow
I'm going to try a little harder
To try.
Every morning I tell myself
That tomorrow
Would be a better day to start.
(I live by the golden plated rule.)
I'm running out of room on the back of bookshop receipts,
And the woman behind the desk is telling me
That I'm running out of time
Until they close for the night.
What I hear
Is that I'm running out of time
To live forever.
When I was eight years old,
I told my mother
That I would never smoke a cigarette
And I've always thought it was funny
How we learn to break promises at an early age.
(You are not the exception.)
Now I measure daylight in smoke breaks
And starlight
In how many times I can be a contradiction to a former me.
(Eight and counting)
I try so hard to be a poet,
But the truth is
I can't make any promises.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 3:50 AM UTC
If I could go into my mind
Walk around
It would look like
A cute little bookshop
Old and rustic
Books overflowing on shelves
All containing the knowledge my mind holds
A few cobwebs
In high up places
Overstuffed chairs
Made for comfort
When I need it
I imagine an older lady
In charge of the store
Wise for my age
The thoughts of
An 80 year old
In a 14 year old's body
When I was younger
It was probably like the children's section
Pictures filled my mind
Giving me the imagination
To keep my innocence
For as long as I did
My mom would say
That a 36 year old
Ran the shop then
And I, the 7 year old
Was a common costumer
I wish I could
Just live in my mind
And not have to interact
With the outside world
Sometimes I like to think
The boys that I get infatuated with
Will visit my little bookstore
And search the shelves
While I hide in an overstuffed chair
And admire them from the distance
I could go on forever
With this metaphor
Of my mind
So I won’t
While those who read this
Get a quick glimpse
Into my bookshop
And if they look hard enough
They can see the dark haired girl
With a smattering of freckles
Sunk into a chair
With a book in hand
And a pen in the other
As she expands her knowledge
She finishes a book
And adds it to the shelf
Another day
Another adventure
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 12:30 AM UTC
She denied the note
with a wave of her hand,
a harsh slice of the independent woman,
right there next to the bookshop stand.
I could tell, you could tell,
the whole ******* shop could tell
that this couple was very much in love.
It was the constant kisses on cheeks and
that rubbing of the palms with thumbs,
that gave their game away.
Tucked beneath wet raincoat pit,
a brochure protruded and hit
every close contact enemy.
It was a bible of new houses;
psalms of yet-to-be-wet-feet-on-new-lino-floors,
prayers of neutral-coloured-baby-room walls,
proverbs of shall-we-frame-this-poster-or-just-BluTac-it-up-and-hope-for-the-best?.
They left the shop back into the rain
to the sound of several sighs,
thank goodness for the gray
dangerous clouds of the sky.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 4:17 PM UTC
So a little kid
was searching around
the crowded metaphysical bookshop
and he had
an old unplugged telephone
that didn't work,
so he asked
the lady,
"What's this?"
and she said,
"A cord"
so he asked,
"What does that mean?"
and she tried
to explain,
so he asked,
"What do you mean,
connection?"
and she tried
to explain,
so he asked,
"What do you mean,
plugged in, inside?"
and she tried
to explain,
so I rang
a bunch of small cymbals
that were attached
to the chair
that I was sitting on,
and the little kid
put the telephone
down.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 5:27 PM UTC
Airport shops are something peculiar
selling everything useless
except books and this little pen that fits in my pocket!
Only in my boy jeans of course,
but would you know the airport
bookshop doesn’t even sell poetry?
As if the only ones cultured enough to read it
are those in the city who are
smart enough to never leave.
Or maybe they know that poets
spent the last of their money on the flight ticket
and can’t afford to buy from airport shops anyway.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:53 AM UTC
I came from Sicily,
The bone-dry land
Of abandoned temples
Where my ambitions
Did not blossom,
And London was my brightest future.
A future made
Of bills to pay
Of a too expensive rent
Of one meal a day,
Of jobs that slipped
Too easily through my fingers.
But the future was mine at last,
It was mine to read, to grasp,
Frantic, enigmatic, full of riddles
Like the copy of Ariel I had bought
One day at the bookshop.
And just like that copy
Of Sylvia’s book
The future is so cruel,
Yet so incredibly beautiful.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
i am driving to the airport in reverse, crying
aching at how lonely my spine will be, without your body
behind me
an unbound book.
the fear of empty
cold
hands
yours are always so warm.
a plane lands backwards from Iceland to Dunedin.
you arrive.
i kiss you and hug you and kiss you and hug you
and tell you goodbye.
we enter a bookshop,
“it’s your flight, petal, time to go”
we only find overpriced Sudoku books.
we look at socks.
we drink drinks, then buy them.
we go down the escalator back to front,
we take the stickers off your suitcase.
i drive back to your house with
you in the front seat, beside me.
we unpack the car,
go up the path
pat your cat goodbye
put your clothes away
your posters back on your wall.
get back into bed
we come
and then we ****
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 6:20 AM UTC
There’s a blank sheet of paper before me,
It’s as blank as our lives have become,
But nothing’s been said, though the passion is dead,
We still make believe we are one.
And the days seem to drift on forever
In this mist that I call ‘No Man’s Land,’
Whatever I say, you’ll be looking away
And you never reach out for my hand.
We eat all our meals in a silence
And pretend we enjoy it that way,
I reach for the newspaper, you for a book
So our eyes never meet in dismay.
Where there once was a ripple of laughter
As your foot rubbed inside of my leg,
Your lips are now pursed in a silence that’s cursed
And I feel that you want me to beg.
We shop, as if we are together,
And we smile when we see our old friends,
But friendship is rare, as our friends couldn’t bear
To watch as this partnership ends.
They can sense all that distance between us,
And note that our smiles are grim,
We never accept invitations,
Unless they’re for ‘her’ or for ‘him’.
Now you’re suddenly working long hours
At the bookshop, when you feel disposed,
Though I’ve wandered at night in the market,
And noticed, the bookshop is closed.
Then you wander back in about midnight,
And go on straight up to your room,
You’re taking your showers at the strangest of hours
While I sit downstairs in the gloom.
So now that I’ve put it on paper,
I shall leave this brief note by your bed,
It might shine a light on our silences,
The issues that should have been said.
I know you’ll be happier once I’ve gone
So I’m catching the midnight train,
I want you to know that I loved you once,
But that love has now turned, to pain!
David Lewis Paget
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
Julie followed Benedict
from bookshop to bookshop
then they went in a cafe
on Charing Cross Road
and sat down
by the window
and ordered two coffees
and lit up cigarettes
how's it going
at the hospital?
he asked
gutty
she said
boring my ******* off
I shouldn't be there
she inhaled deeply
on her cigarette
once you're off the drugs
you won't be
he said
I am off the drugs
she looked at him
well most of the time
she said
what do they say
at the hospital?
they said my parents
want me to stay there
until I'm cleaned off
she said
but you're out today
he said
yes on good behaviour
she said
any sign
I've taken anything
then I'm locked in
and Daddy said
they'll have me sectioned
if need be
he has doctor friends
who will oblige
and him and Mother
being doctors themselves
it won't be difficult
she said
Benedict watched
as the waitress
brought the coffees
and put them on the table
and swayed off
in a Monroe fashion
we could take in a film
if you like
he said
no I don't want
to be stuck
in some smokey cinema
she said
I want to be out
in the fresh air
and see London
ok
he said
what about having a stroll
along the Thames Embankment?
then after take in
a look around an art gallery
you are full of fun
she said moodily
ok where then?
he said
some room someplace
and a good ****
she said
the word hung in the air
like a dark cloud
in the cafe
people gaped at her
I think they've got
Lichtenstein at the gallery
this month
he said
Pop Art stuff
he added
she pulled a face
then drew on her cigarette
you're in a mood
he said
maybe you should
have stayed at the hospital
and twiddled your thumbs
on the ward
she stared at him
releasing smoke
from her mouth slowly
ok the gallery
isn't too bad an idea
she said
but I'm gagging
for a fix
my body's screaming for it
she went quiet
and sipped her coffee
he looked at her
sitting there
dark brown hair
tied by a ribbon
her eyes staring
at the table
her fingers holding
the cup and cigarette
he recalled the time
at the hospital
when they'd managed
to be alone
in the small broom cupboard
and the quick ***
in the dark
between brooms
and dusters
and buckets
he smiled
what you smiling at?
she said
cupboard love
he said
she laughed
yes that was good
she said
unexpected too
and any moment
some poor cleaner
coming for a bucket
and seeing us at it
she stubbed out
her cigarette
in an ashtray
on the table
and they went out the cafe
and back along
towards Trafalgar Square
to the art gallery
to see what was there.
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
The book folds to reveal
The real world,
Beneath my crouched knees
Untied sneakers sprawled
All over the floor, muddy.
There is a silent joy in
Watching others consume
Realities all too
Different,
And all too
Common to
Yours—"unreal,"
Ethereal.
Perhaps all too so.
For the past two days
I've caught the people
Crouching beside me
Sniffling.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC