"doorman" poems
I imagine myself
A few gentle decades older.
Finally grasping the cusp
Of success.
Living in my own apartment
In New York City, nonetheless.
Wearing an Armani coat
(Whatever those look like.)
Walking idly yet prestigiously
Through winter in the city.
Taking care not to laugh too loud,
Talk to myself, smile too much.
A small, attractive female
Has to be serious to get ahead.
Customers will buy from a happy girl
Only if she is early 20's, at most.
That is Marketing 101.
I am a small fish in a large sea;
The principles of Darwinism
Still apply to me.
I've learned long ago to succeed,
I must stifle the welcoming smile.
So along the familiar concrete
I stride,
Carefully manicured hands
In pockets.
The Filipinos know better
Than to rush on the hands
Of a businesswoman caressing
A successful career.
She tips well and lives well.
I walk along with cool calm
And feminine grace.
I have regained the safety
To be feminine once again.
The criminals know better
Than to infiltrate
The Business district
And cause trouble
To working professionals
In Armani coats.
I imagine myself a few decades older.
Kissing snowflakes unenthusiastically.
Yes, I marvel in poetry, in Nature,
But I have matured
Much like the snowflakes themselves.
At the end of a cycle,
No matter how beautiful.
My actions flow gracefully and delicately.
I melt into New York City
Like a cell in a body.
Pumping fuel into the *****
To sustain the mass.
A tumor.
I smile subtly as I slosh along.
I recall, once upon a time,
On my lower-class youth.
***** jokes, crude dancing,
And cluttered apartments.
I approach the high-rise building
I call home and greet the doorman
With the obligatory disregard
For his innermost being.
Poetry truly is in the strangest of places.
Even in an enigma like me.
I enter the marble floors,
Wiping my feet,
My rent as sky-high as
The building itself.
Elevator. Comforting motion sickness.
This is success.
The pit of my stomach sinks.
I tell myself it's the motion sickness.
I return to my apartment,
With its symmetrical details.
My thoughts return to you.
You've never stepped foot in my home,
But you've always been here with me.
I get dinner started.
I set out the extra glass, like always.
Rituals like these serve
As my Sunday mass.
I drink your glass with my evening medication.
Dare I say like always?
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 6:09 AM UTC
Once I saw a monkey man,
driving down my street in his monkey van,
kids tried to run away,
but monkey ran,
he brought the children to his monkey land.
If they got out of line,
with monkey man,
they'd get a slap,
from the back of his hand.
The favorite nut of monkey man,
was the pecan,
he loved pecans,
the monkey man,
he eats as manys as he cans.
Unlimited lifespan,
has the monkey man,
currently lives in Iran.
Likes to read comics,
batman,
superman,
while getting,
a monkey tan.
Been around,
since the caveman,
had the monkey man.
Used to be a doorman,
had monkey man.
Wanted to be an anchorman,
but there was a monkey ban.
Not a woman.
Not a man.
M o n k e y M a n .
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 8:47 PM UTC
During my second trimester I felt like getting some fresh air.
I went out cycling through town in the warm sunny day.
Observing the comings and goings of people all around.
The flower cart on the corner, lent a lovely lilac scent to the air.
The street preacher was shouting out his testimonials,
trying to recruit believers to his cause.
Further on as my pedaling took me, I saw a group of boys.
They were pantomiming their favorite rockstars.
Strumming the air for all they were worth and
Jamming to the silent music in their heads.
Down the block past the Bakery, smelling of cinnamon buns,
was the museum. My favorite place to stroll on a quiet day.
The gregarious doorman always wished me "A fine day, Madam!",
as he ushered me into the foyer. He always wore that silly hat that makes me smile.
And, of course, he kept an eye on my red bicycle by the door.
Making my way through the corridors, observing the sculptures, paintings and artifacts.
Wondering at the archaeologists dinosaur finds, mounted above and behind the glass.
Finally, on to see Pandora and her ill-fated decision to open the box.
Letting forth into the world all manner of toxicity. And then, again, opening the box
she set Hope free so we could cope in this danger-laden world.
Ending my museum tour, I contemplated my coming child
and what he would find to make him cry or hope or love
in this world, as I slowly pedaled through the spring infused day.
Feb 4, 2011
Feb 4, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
How wise I am to have instructed the butler
to instruct the first footman to instruct the second
footman to instruct the doorman to order my carriage;
I am about to volunteer a definition of marriage.
Just as I know that there are two Hagens, Walter and Copen,
I know that marriage is a legal and religious alliance entered
into by a man who can't sleep with the window shut and a
woman who can't sleep with the window open.
Moreover, just as I am unsure of the difference between
flora and fauna and flotsam and jetsam,
I am quite sure that marriage is the alliance of two people
one of whom never remembers birthdays and the other
never forgetsam,
And he refuses to believe there is a leak in the water pipe or
the gas pipe and she is convinced she is about to asphyxiate
or drown,
And she says Quick get up and get my hairbrushes off the
windowsill, it's raining in, and he replies Oh they're all right,
it's only raining straight down.
That is why marriage is so much more interesting than divorce,
Because it's the only known example of the happy meeting of
the immovable object and the irresistible force.
So I hope husbands and wives will continue to debate and
combat over everything debatable and combatable,
Because I believe a little incompatibility is the spice of life,
particularly if he has income and she is pattable.
2.9k
Love isn't all about
sunshine, lollipops and rainbows
it's about hard work and mayhem
and psychological blows
It's about betrayal and jealousy
infidelity and boredom
it's about looking the wrong way
and getting slapped by the doorman
It's about leaving the seat up
and many sleepless nights
it's about slamming the doors and making up
after many countless fights
It's about verbally vomiting sweet nothings
with warm and fuzzy glee
it's about finding pairs of ***** socks
hiding behind the settee
It's about holding hands and snogging
while everybody stares
it's about embarrassing storytelling
and pretending not to care
It's about realising that you need someone
no matter if they cause you bedlam
you just know it's because you love them warts and all
and you just can't live without them.
Oct 17, 2010
Oct 17, 2010 at 7:13 AM UTC
I saw Sting in the lobby this morning, we were going out and he was coming in. Lisa nudged me, “Sting” was all she whispered. He was with a woman and a man. The woman was talking to the doorman. Sting was dressed all in black except for a long stark-white cashmere scarf, he was chatting and working a dark-gray French-flat-cap around in his hands. His hair is very short and white.
We wanted to walk in the snow, if only for a minute.
A gust of wind caught us as we reached the sidewalk. The two American flags, on either side of the entrance, went rigid, at 9-o’clock as if saluting us. “Jeeez!” I said, like the Georgia girl I am - or was. “Don’t be a baby,” Lisa answered, like a true, pittyless New Yorker but her cheeks had turned a child-like pink. She flipped up her collar.
I patted my pocket, relieved to feel my phone and know that if we froze to death the authorities could use “find my friends” to locate our bodies.
Leeza joins us a moment later and I can’t help but notice that she’s dressed like it’s a cool fall day. Back in the day, when my brother would dress like summer even though temperatures in Georgia had dipped cruelly into the fifties. Seeing him, my mom would say, “Where there’s no sense, there’s no feeling,” but I don’t.
“Did you see Sting?” I asked Leeza (12). She gives me a blank look. “Sting”, I said, “the lead singer for The Police?” I add, as clarification. “I don’t know who that is,” she says flatly. “He was famous,” I say in surrender, “a long time ago, in the 90s.” Maybe the next generation won’t be as celebrity driven.
Thank God Lisa suggested I pin my artist-beret down or it would have blown away, like my resolve to walk in the snow. Still, I followed Lisa into the park like a cat on a leash - unwilling to be seen as any less Canadian. The show crunched like we were trampling over snow-cones.
Trees began turning away the wind as we entered Central Park, “I think we may survive.” I said cheerfully. Just because you're freezing to death doesn’t mean you can’t be affable.
Why don’t pigeons freeze to death - I thought birds flew south for the winter?
Jan 10, 2022
Jan 10, 2022 at 9:17 AM UTC
At first there are only the linens,
Soft as a breath.
I am lost in the snow,
In that gentle place on the edge of sleep,
Not knowing my own name.
And the moment lasts for hours
Until the first touch,
An explosion of light and heat.
We are two blind cave creatures
Feeling our way toward each other,
Moving under the covers
Like continental drift.
A surge of blood and memories
Drawing us together to discover
and remember ourselves.
As we become aware,
I clutch you close to me
And swear I'll never let you go,
Because I know what that will mean—
We'll climb out of bed, dress,
And open the blinds to let in the city
Before stepping into
Your parents' Fifth Avenue apartment
To eat like royalty at the round marble table
by the bay window
Where we look out at our subjects below.
Sometime after breakfast,
Reality slips in.
Your folks are on their way back
From some business trip or spa,
So I'll pull on my coat and scarf
Eager as a condemned man.
Rise and fall of the elevator, a guillotine.
You'll walk me out
Past whichever doorman is on duty
And on Fifth Avenue,
Under the shade of the scaffolding,
We'll kiss madly and hungrily and
Finally.
You return to Xanadu
While I take the train downtown,
Waking from a dream
To a life with no doormen,
No housekeepers,
Just cigarette butts
And bills to be paid.
Yes, I'll miss the bay window,
And its view of the city.
I'll miss the plush linens and all of the marble.
But it's not those things that I remember
In the cold quiet of my bed.
It's the warmth of your skin in the morning
And your smile as I open my eyes.
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
Should I ever come to the end of my road,
when I meet the doorman of death,
I shall hope that he care just enough to heed my last request.
I would not pray for hope, nor life, nor freedom.
I should ask him, "Dear Death,
might you listen to me now?
I beg to find my final breath
upon Earth's broken brow;
the crashing waves, day or night,
the pum'ling seaside cloud,
the falling rocks, their endless plight,
and distant ******* growls,
the fading sun, the rising moon;
I even feel their gaze.
Dear Death, I shall not wait the more,
please take me where I lay."
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
Candied black licorice.
Hair made of silk.
Memories mix dissolve meetings
Of love's labor of leering.
A warning between the moons.
She said her name in a whisper.
I knew by her eyes that I couldn't keep her.
Nightingale look razor strap barren.
Secrets between two torn in caring.
A can full of roses.
Dog dares in a moment.
Build me a fire
With two seats and the stars
We can look off in the distance
Not caring how far.
Since then I've never been able to hold
A thought longer then three seconds.
Leafing through these worn pictures,
Seeing these faces red and blistered,
I try to recall what I was feeling back then,
And what letters I wrote and what I didn't send.
Cabin alone up on the mountains slope
I take my canister and my four foot rope.
The sun's behind me, big and bright.
Gotta' make camp before the fall of the night.
When my name was misery, everyone knew me.
When my name was love, not a soul did.
When my name was honor, no one even bothered.
When my name was jealously, everyone writhed righteously.
Telling doorman upset by the Autumn;
He says it is too cold for him.
I - taking the things from its pockets -
Offer him my black, woolen pea coat.
He huffs and puffs and leaves,
Without even a word being spoke.
A simple sentence can change the world.
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
school girl skirt
doorman
taste of corona in a coffee mug
sitting by the east river
red wine
kisses
drunk kissing
laughing
the beatles
dancing
harsh sunlight
wooden floor
no food in the fridge
only two coffee mugs
and a few beers.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 2:47 PM UTC
I never dreamt
Like most people do;
Lived my life
A minute at a time
Come what may
My stride was wide
As my path was narrow
Never straying
From what I believed
To be my highway
To the doorman
In the sky;
And then one night
I slept;
Woke up in a world
Not alone;
She was there
The cliché's came
One after another,
Too good to be true
Not bad enough to be not;
She was the sweetest
Dream I ever dreamt;
Never wanted to wake
From this bliss ever again;
I can't wait to sleep forever...
© okpoet
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 12:57 AM UTC
Sometimes I tell myself that I am normal.
Sometimes I tell myself that I am not.
Sometimes I could drown within the contents of that needle.
I wonder at what time do things work out
I wonder how many hits or how many highs
Could help me arrive to the place of no doubt.
That is my destination, but traveling never seems to cease.
The ceiling over my resting place
Will tell you secrets, if you just remember to say, "please."
Because so often in this world, we just take
We take from whatever is there, when there's nothing even to give.
We have assuredly erased the word "keepsake"
So if you do remember to ask before you assume
If you know that good things come to those who wait
Go with a question and ask the ceiling in my room.
Ask it for the needle or the tears on my pillow
But brace yourself, "Ignorance is bliss."
Some secrets can pierce, like an arrow.
Ask the ceiling for me, if you would
Because I should like to know about myself
All the things I never understood.
My ceiling has seen me, no doubt
The naked me, in the purest sense,
That will ever come about.
Sometimes I wonder just what it would say
"Oh that girl? She lies awake every night.
The edges of her mind have begun to fray."
Or maybe something quite different,
Maybe something like, "Sometimes,
She is very quite brilliant."
I wonder if it might speak with a british voice
For I imagine it does, but watch, it's probably harsh
It probably has no choice.
Sometimes I act like the ceiling cannot speak
Or other times I simply know it can't
But when I believe it can, it makes my knees weak.
But please, I beg of you, If you can
Tell my ceiling to hide the needle
Because my skin is tired of being the doorman
For my brain, my skin would rather be
Wholesome and healed,
The bodyguard to protect my immunity.
And If you happen to get the chance
Throw a wink at mirror
For it never gets more than a glance.
Don't bother to go to my room at all
If you can save yourself the trouble
There's nothing there at all.
The ceiling won't talk.
The pillow has no tears.
There is no needle.
There is no room.
In fact, there is no "she."
Only sometimes,
In my mind,
Are there even words
To define me.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
Water only runs in the house of a holy man
But the prayers of a parched child are ignored
in favour of the money man's plan
Believe in a God all you want
he won't save you
Nihilism saves valor
Believe in nothing and nothing can hurt you
Those empty symbiotic phrases of the faithless
Listen to the chimes of the ice cream van
and despair at the crimes of a suit and tie man
Crunch of steel in a midnight collision
they collude in hopes of derision
Under desk lamp ambiance, in heated rooms
13th floor apartment blocks
where the doorman knocks
where the doorman knocks
Time and crime again, and lie and try again
Paid protests in the streets
Digest your intellect, removal of a safe space
So that they might turn the power switch
The blackout comes when revenue succumbs
In your ancient catacombs, where matted bandages hang
and drip crimson onto dusty floors
Smeared where they jeered at the death of a democracy
This is the corner of civilisation, torn down and replaced with a bank
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 9:17 AM UTC
Briefly entranced
by a swish of hips
as they sashay past a doorman,
he takes a breath, approaches
and asks to get through.
"Sorry sir," the tall man says,
"your purchasing record suggests
"that you dislike jazz.
"I think you'd better move along."
Of course, of course,
what was he thinking?
A narrow escape, that.
And on home through the empty streets he goes,
Untroubled by the wide wild sounds,
the horns and pianos,
the reckless freeform blast and chatter
that might ruthlessly have smashed through
his carefully constructed identity.
Safe at home,
his television allows him to watch
a comedy he has seen thirteen times before
and so must really love.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
The garden meeting adjourned and moved...
Management abruptly cleared the premises,
Canceled return visits,
Speculations inconveniently disrupted,
Wonder-rousings interrupted...
We found ourselves somehow
Standing on the Great Outside.
No wistful entreatments heard He,
The Grand Proprietor,
In spite of our new knowledges,
Our now-wise forays philosophical,
Our sophisticated posturing;
He seemed without empathy
In His Garden's sudden closure,
In our ejection and dismissal.
Stumblers of unexpected freedom,
Following a shadowed river
Narrowing down into a Valley,
Darkening down into a pinprick end,
We gaze behind, ahead, behind,
To see, high sword gleaming,
The standing doorman, glowering.
Eden, receding from our view,
Serpent joins us as we walk,
"Where were we when we left our talk?"
His lowered voice renews.
We notice now, the air is chill
As an endless sun slips down
Behind a darkening hill.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:56 AM UTC
My heart is such a stupid thing,
I cannot tell a lie
But deep inside the stinking walls
There's plenty rotting piles.
Don't destroy the only thing you've ever loved
I laugh. I cry. I do it anyway;
It's all a play
a farce, a dutiful desire to feel
Some pain of some kind somewhere
where no one can ever see the tears that fall and puddle in the deep spots of my insides where there is hardly any light and I only know they're there because the water weighs me down...
and every time I look at her I smile
every time I look at her I die
and every time I dream of her, she's right there by my side
So I can't tell the difference anymore;
nightmare, daydream, its all the same to me
flip hair, crimp hair, I'm on my way to hell.
let the fires fade away, tell the doorman he can
stay,
I want to tell the story to a face that doesn't know
Strangers give me freedom because there is no consequence. But those who love me stick like glue
So I can't tell them truly. What I am
Inside
Is a secret fit for none but me and h̶e̶r̶ .
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 4:52 PM UTC
That’s how it would be
I’d forever be the one
telling your doorman
“I won’t be staying”
his accusing looks
knowing I’m only around
when the Mrs. to your Mr.
isn’t
That copy of your apartment key
that won’t be returned
because you only needed two before,
rests on my keychain.
As the doorman winks, I realize
why I’m the one worth leaving
why I’m the one with bare fingers
while her’s are adorned-
she wouldn’t do this
For I love you enough
to keep coming to you
but not enough
to leave you.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC
In tired atlases the doorman in pressed uniform
Outstretches his left hand to the ladies right
The rich waver in snare drum vibration as the
Will seekers unnerve the puppy parade behind door #42
And when with you, I wish to be away
And when far, I only wonder where you are
Peddling rose craning over dusty text books
See the light of the sun across the prodigal meadow
Around the peso saloon under a half smiling moon
Every man you pass can't help but whistle to salute you
There's no reason to fight
And there's no reason to whine
With you and this moon, there will never be enough time
We are the fortunate young running wild half interested
Ignorant and wanting the next death, ****** war
Laugh tract addicts and screen dragging junkies
Pushing social standings to the edge of digital ego insanity
When the sick die, they are released to the Earth
When they ****** die, they are released to their past
When the blessed die, they are released into eternity
When the rest die, they are released onto the back pages of newspapers
I look out through these eyes I have
Seeing the world through a perception tainted, beaten, and enriched
To seek change, is only natural, but in the end, futile
Escaping myself would be my ultimate creation
May 9, 2013
May 9, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
This is somewhat of a surreal writing and so is the title
well here goes...
Foolin' around with chaos
Kickin' at the cosmos
Not quite known' where
my left foot and right foot
really belong
Wondren' if the stains
in my undershorts
are the results
of nicotine
Imaginin' the Philly goliath
clothing statue around 15th and Market
constructed to clamp
onto Willys Nose
Wittnessin' the "Parkin' Authority"
rhythmically writin' on pads
their violation ticket songs
to the quarter meters of cash flow
Drizzly watchin'
The multitude of "Ben Hurs"
precariously skim
and fly around the corner
at 16th and Market headin' north And
seekin' self-infliction
by seriously
tellin' a waitress
that she really serves the best food in town. And
salutin' every Admiral dressed doorman
that I pass. Then later,
overhearin' a good "Samaritan"
tell a street ******
that four roses
can also be sniffed as well
Thoughts of Christ
nailed to the " Charles Schwab" edifice
with a thorny looking crown
made from antiquated ticker tape
His side pierced by
piggy bank breakers,
and the outpouring of green inscriptions
that state, " In God we trust."
All these things
race through the squeaking
reels of my mind already
corroded by seen corruption as a
passing Krishna group's chant permeates
the thick city air
And an unnoticed dying dove raises
its quivering right wing
as if in a last salute to peace
And all too well I know,
how the city devours its youth
like Goya's " Saturn Devouring his Son"
All too soon, in the sunlight
of my benevolent youthfulness within,
a chilled blanket of knowing about ignorance
overwhelms me
Tormented by indefinable tormentor,
The love-lust for life diminishes
and captured by surrounding greed
and torn asunder
Driven away, sitting in Rittenhouse Square,
touched by two lovers
as squirrels
scamper playfully
over dead dried
Autumn leaves...
...that crackle...
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
The games
The small-fry
Ketchup she squirt's
Talking heads
sugar on my
miniature flirt
tongue
Burger bands
Gimme___ Gimme
((Mini Macaroons))
Don't big change me
My eyes like
((Rocky Racoons))
Movie Mania
Beatles miniature
I want to hold
your hand
Lucy in the sky*
No chip diamonds
Cool Hand Luke
American girl doll
Exchange for
my red bike
Twilight zone
dimension I___
Cannot read
the numbers!!!
I-phone oranges
compared to
small apples
That's me
Mini Cooper
Car drinking Snapple
The shooting
star*
Just gas up
V-Wagon
mini car
(Mini Bow)
ladybug
kissed her
Coffee mug
The red and
black dots
treat her
like a lady
Small bits of aroma
The smaller sticky
yellow
notes what votes
Mini-me camera
Mini hot___ Hollywood
dog dachshund
* * * *
It's mini
mealtime____
Adorable
Presentable
The Dollhouse
lodge Mini
Disneyland___**
No copying to
resemble
Mini Fruit
salad merger
Red Robin's Burger
were overly generous
Mr. Big
imaginable
so small
Superman's
flight of rage
So-Huge_____ and long____
turned him if I only
had a brain
((The Tinman))
mentally touched him
Sprayed his oil can
in mini heart size
Hello Dollie
collector
magnifying glass
Handcrafted
Pleasurable kind
and small
Broomstick
Witchcraft
Miniature leader
Knock on
heavens door
The Doorman
The Penthouse
Mini Bavarian
creme
Me doughnut
The cool breeze
off her fan
Big thumb
((Thumbelina))
The mini frog
Hit too many
London fogs
Mini White castle
burger chips off the
miniature block party
Meat tenderizer like trolls
Las Vegas
money slot machines
Those miniature dolls
((Minerals Top Ranks))
Gemology
produce
more blues
******
Adolf ******
generals
Cereal boxes
Sly Foxes Attention
How her
features met
his smaller
side_______
Royal hot blues singer
Mini He pops dishes
All Banana nut's
When it
comes to
Monkeying
around
With________?
miniature swingers
cereal___*
May 26, 2018
May 26, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
there's a cavern in this cadaver. noise ricochets off hollow walls,
intensifying the immense desire to initiate my demise.
my soul split after the ellipsis tricked the will out of the innocent.
i have little motivation and the voices make my head spin,
leaving me wasted and short-changed at the frontline again.
let me sink to the fourth regiment. take my bayonet-
i have no need for it now, not when my skin sings for silver
and i'm begging for the end.
we won't be saved til we're dead, but corpses never know they're saved.
i'll lay in torment in my grave long after dirt obscures my frame,
but misery to me is commonplace, like my disgrace.
"you can't go to heaven unless you get high"- well, i've tried,
but my withering physique is merely shame with a face.
i asked entrance, and the doorman could not recognize me.
he said, "this place is for souls, not for the embodiment of self-loathing."
he denied me admittance and bid me good riddance, kicked me from the clouds,
and i fell back to living hell, still hollow, without absolution or due pittance.
"what doesn't **** you makes you stronger"- what ********
they fed those pacifier lines to me so i would stop sobbing and deal with it.
i've learned to keep my countenance blank, to stop the stares and questions.
my carcass dons a steady gaze while inside i howl, pain relentless, ageless, endless.
i'd eviscerate myself a thousand times if it would give me peace,
but i know inside that i'm too entwined with suffering for it to cease.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:25 AM UTC
*The grand wind blows as it hums along –
This dark and grey velvet morning - the sun barely risen.
A well dressed classy drunk smears her finger across
The doorman’s lips and whispers, “Please don’t tell anyone.”
She stumbles along while someone in her way curses -
A garbage truck outside stops and reverses -
– beep – beep – beep.
Standing there in her favorite long coat
The desk clerk seems to gloat -
Gloat over every marvelous thing she ever wanted.
In this, the one day when she is thinner -
Outside a siren shrieks repeating the tormented,
Is she a saint or a sinner?
Finally the quiet idles up there eternal
Inside her blessed Penthouse suite.
From her barred window she watches a crosswalk signal
Still standing in her long winter coat.
Across the alley she sees someone on a fire escape,
As they wrap around and disappear down the funnel.
In the serenity of the street below a Cupid like boy
Salutes his mother at the bus stop.
The mother stoops to pat him on his noggin.
Then mommy makes a sculpture of her packages,
As the boy salutes again.
Up there behind her bars the drunk thinks she is different somehow.
Taking off her coat she opens a book entitled “Value”
Finding a written sentence that ends with “come back to me now.”
She gives her legacy a second look
And thinks how absolutely - positively - wondrously dear -
If only she could believe what she had just read -
And then she disappears.*
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 9:53 AM UTC