"greenwich" poems
These days have ebbed
as Love's swell was checked:
the waters in some places
- all but dammed!
But now at last
I sense the rising tide
and thank Temese
for the current's turn;
now following that great writhing snake
to where its pulsing head will rake;
over the mucky soiled watery beds
of Woolwich
Greenwich
Limehouse
- and under -
Tower Bridge
To that great gloating sight
A crown of a billion lights
Blazing day and night:
And somewhere within
In the slick oily warmth
Our flood tides mesh,
As over each other we wash.
Hard thrusts
wicked deep cuts
given and received
are recorded in that great mirror smoked!
where with a tug and a shove
on the banks
in the streets
through the loopy twists
everything prospers in the glow
as the decades decaying flow;
each ***** bud
red with new blood
one after t'other
flowers
before their purple petals scatter.
Let's on the luck o' the dice
(you 'n' me!)
ride out
on the flotsam and jetsom
that has carried us this far
and as pleases
merge.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 2:32 AM UTC
There's a Russian fairytale of snowdrops in January
a girl meeting the twelve seasons in human form
who lead her in the middle of winter to where snowdrops grow
I never thought once that I'd live in a land where snowdrops grow in February rather than in April
& where the snowy winter has become a memory
& where in my childhood we weren't able to buy sauerkraut & pickled gherkins done the way we liked
yet which now has become more international
& where people smile & say ' sorry' to you politely
if you tread on their feet
as if their feet were the problem
& where time is measured by the Big Ben & Greenwich
instead of by the Kremlin
& it always rains in summer but there are rarely any thunderstorms
& people holiday in places like Majorca & Benidorm
if they're working class
& France, if they're middle class
& where I went to a public ( private) girls' school
& wore a red uniform
& sang the hymn ' Jerusalem'
believing in this green & pleasant land
with all my heart
until I left & came back again,
this time, an adult, a European
living through the British recession
& shocked at the newly hostile attitude to migrants
yet even now when I see those snowdrops
in February
my heart soars & I'm back living a fairytale
a child in wonder
just as before
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with *** hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be ********
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
(across from the McDonald’s and next to
the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.
the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.
it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
two large
separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms
then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter
I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom
but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they
then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time
but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia
I bawled
there wasn’t
even
a
stump.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
Leaving Minnesota on train or buses,
crowded and alone, were you fearful
to sleep on couches and of the Village
people with a rhapsody of dreams
and cacophony of chords, under rain
and sewer stank was it hard,
to step inside and play
the first time for glistening eyes
and stage lights and to let melody
escape your belly-throat
for them, or did you know
more, that words can sculpt
delicacy as smooth
as Donatello and that life can be bought
without wrinkled greens and pressed
threads? Walking under a hard-rain
of assumption and change, did Greenwich
birth a demon-sadness, so you hid
your neck beneath collars and dark
glasses and smoky rhyme, when the ship
comes in will you be onboard or escape
to Louisiana, misunderstood, working
a river boat after you give Lennon
a puff and Warhol a tight-fist?
Did sad-eyed Sara send you back
leather spanish boots or forget,
and was Christ able to mend that
broken love, and did you later kick his idiot
wind away and in 2009 on stage when I could
see emptiness and heartbreak
hidden underneath your creased stetson,
were you still singing
it ain't me, babe?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
The snipers rifle hung from the parapet
still warm, cordite drifted from
the business end.
It resembled a cigarette,
dangling in the groove of an
ashtray which was given to you
as a souvenir from a place
you had no desire to go.
And you had no desire to go there
as you had read stories of donkey
cruelty and the militias’ refusal to
accept Greenwich as the
centre of time.
Their struggle against the meridian
has been well documented in film and
prose.
Stories and rumours filtered in
from the hinterland, carried home in
economy flights from different time zones
arriving at the terminal, milling around the
carousel.
****** victim 4 lay in a forensic
scene, white tapped surrounded by
duty free bags, and the secret dossiers
exposing the militias plans drifted, blood
stained in the breeze.
Dec 31, 2012
Dec 31, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
There was a young lady of Greenwich,
Whose garments were bordered with Spinach;
But a large spotty Calf,
Bit her shawl quite in half,
Which alarmed that young lady of Greenwich.
2.4k
I didn’t toss the ball
With Pop at six
I didn’t hunt or fish
At green sixteen
I didn’t learn
To fix my car
At twenty
I didn’t grow up
Knowing how to fight
I taught my father
How to shoot a basketball
I taught him
What a balk is
From a walk
I showed him
Greenwich Village
And to fight without fighting
And the chili that makes
The loudest ****
And he taught me whiskey
And the best tobacco
How to shave
My face
And not appear so young
He showed me Spain,
Bullfighting,
And Picasso,
And the cheapest food
In Mexico
We shared our pride
Our books
And being always stubborn
About the things
We cared
The most about
We shared a car
Sometimes
And all our music
And the way we hoard things
That we buy
We fought
And fiercely
Over his prejudice;
His hurting mom;
My attitude;
The way he always worshipped
Reagan
And whether Olga
Was an ugly name.
Sometimes I’d write things
And he wouldn’t get them
Sometimes I’d write things
That he didn’t like
And then he’d tell me
They were ok, but
On his face was anguish
At what I had done
My father taught me
How to be a real man
He showed me laughter,
How to be a friend;
He made me realize
How to mold my values
From the things I learned
And not the things
He said
My father told me
When I was a baby
To call him Aita
Because he was Basque
And to this day
That’s still his name
To me
My sisters
And my dad
Now, Aita’s sick
Sometimes
Sometimes he’s wrong
Sometimes he’s flawed
A child—
One more of Mom’s
But every day
We spend
Together
I am more proud
To be
His son.
Jun 20, 2010
Jun 20, 2010 at 2:08 PM UTC
On July the 4th in 1976, the bicentennial of our great nation. I awoke at 3am in Lakeside, Ohio to start a journey to Plant City, Florida. I was to pick up a leased car in Kent, Ohio and take it to Greenwich, Connecticut. Where I joined several others to make the trek to the Sunshine State. When I crossed the George Washington Bridge over the Hudson River in New York City, off to my right I saw the tall ships heading out to the harbor for the day's celebrations. The radio played every version of God Bless America in their archive. I sang every one of them. We traveled all day and into the night where we saw fireworks in at least 4 states. We reached our destination in Plant City very early in the morning on the 5th of July. But
I Larry Dean Goodwin on July 4th, 1976 in a brand new American made Red Chevrolet Monti Carlo sedan traveled through Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Washington D.C., North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida.
God Bless America, God Bless Us All.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
Another visit to
Med Psych;
the withdrawals are
horrendous.
I’m emaciated and malnourished.
With the exception of
one meal every few
days, I’ve dined on ***** and
wine for my sustenance.
I check out a lap top from
the patient library, and
try to get the poems organized on
my flash drive.
Concentration is elusive.
The psych doctor decides
to have me committed.
She’s concerned about my
worsening health and depression.
I guess I can’t
blame her, but what
bird likes a cage?
I try to talk her
out of it,
but she’s resolute.
The next day, just
as the deputy is
serving me the
committal papers, I have
a seizure—a bad one.
My lips turn blue.
I **** myself.
The doctors pump me full
of Ativan. Everything is a
blur for the next
week.
Slowly, softly,
my mind comes back.
I get a room-mate;
turns out he’s an
artist, a fantastic
abstract painter,
his name’s Chris.
Chris gets the activity
director to bring
him some paints and
other art supplies.
He goes to work;
stabbing the paper
with his brush—
makes it bleed with
color. He’s a young
drunk;
a madman and a
genius.
I have my notebook and
my sword.
I pound out the word, the line,
my highway through this
silly society.
Chris and I talked
long into the autumn
night, locked in a
cerebral prison.
The room we were in
was more like a Greenwich Village
beat pad than it was a
hospital room.
Mar 6, 2023
Mar 6, 2023 at 5:57 AM UTC
Seoul boy
nice kid, eighteen, from the East
took on the east side
and the west side
story goes,
his mother knew
"much dings"
and his father knew politics, so
"less dings"
his mother was a woman of
words,
spoke of feminists,
spoke of progress,
read many books and
spoke goot engeulish,
"and your job?"
"No, that is your father question."
huh?
his father was a man that
WAS,
ran for a lot and
stood for a lot and
looked far ahead and
above of his head but
never really
seem to
stop? Seoul boy thought,
of Times Square. Times Square.
TIMES SQUARE
everyday, out there
selling shirts that say
"wo-I-NY"
and umbrellas
when it rained.
(and yes, it rained
in the city of dreams)
soft-lookin' kid
hard cash,
best friends with the
homeless "trash", so-called.
"urban campers,"
"friendly locals!"
"fairly loco?"
"lotsa cOcO."
huh.
Seoul boy, working at a
Greenwich pharmacy
first-time paycheck
first-time real job
first-time AC
first-time man ask me
out
there, somewhere
out there.
what?
your home.
my home? yeah.
no. wait what?
this is home
even gay man knew.
even homeless knew.
even Seoul boy knew.
"best place I am live,
'till die."
he said
"best place is
the New York City."
he said
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 10:52 PM UTC
I hail a cab. I’ve got to leave this part
of town, the Upper West,
dripping with fatty money.
At 97th I step in
and exhale, revived
by the sweating air in taxi cabs.
Through the window
I see
the imposing orange
of a tall
sewer ventilator,
steaming and
ignored—
At Columbus Circle,
a corner hot-
dog stand
is slow-
ly wheeled to
its moment-
ary place—
Broadway, with
one closed bank.
Empty, in back
the dusted black,
and iron beams?
Things lean
diagonal
against the walls,
a warning—
Faster, faster,
further south and somewhere
in the Village.
The rows,
rows and rows
of brownstone stoops:
quietly lined
along the street
patient, waiting,
delightfully clean—
The cab rolls to a stop. I pay and step out to the street.
Near Greenwich Street, the crosswalk
supports some types trying so hard
not to be doing all that much
and wearing hip clothes.
I’ll stop mid-street, look up real high,
and take in the sunlight
that’s slamming against the pavement.
Feb 6, 2010
Feb 6, 2010 at 10:22 AM UTC
Come with me to Greenwich
let's dance on the time line
dance with me, on and on
on my weekend of madness
Let's get the clowns to pop their balloons
as the bright green dogs run past
let's make every moment our last
oh happy is my weekend of madness
Let's kiss the frogs in the duck pond
and whist there tickle the fish
get hot-dogs from the maggot stand
On my weekend of madness
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
are unstable
pill poppers that
can't make up their mind.
Often get mistaken
for rambling thoughts
and go to trial for
having *** in public
places. Many have
tattoos and are a
bad influence on
your children. The
last one I saw caught
a ride to Greenwich
Village from a trucker
who reeked of *****
If you ever see a poem
in your neighborhood,
please call the fire
department to put
it out before it
spreads like wildfire.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:44 AM UTC
SMOKE of autumn is on it all.
The streamers loosen and travel.
The red west is stopped with a gray haze.
They fill the ash trees, they wrap the oaks,
They make a long-tailed rider
In the pocket of the first, the earliest evening star.. . .
Three muskrats swim west on the Desplaines River.
There is a sheet of red ember glow on the river; it is dusk; and the muskrats one by one go on patrol routes west.
Around each slippery padding rat, a fan of ripples; in the silence of dusk a faint wash of ripples, the padding of the rats going west, in a dark and shivering river gold.
(A newspaper in my pocket says the Germans pierce the Italian line; I have letters from poets and sculptors in Greenwich Village; I have letters from an ambulance man in France and an I. W. W. man in Vladivostok.)
I lean on an ash and watch the lights fall, the red ember glow, and three muskrats swim west in a fan of ripples on a sheet of river gold.. . .
Better the blue silence and the gray west,
The autumn mist on the river,
And not any hate and not any love,
And not anything at all of the keen and the deep:
Only the peace of a dog head on a barn floor,
And the new corn shoveled in bushels
And the pumpkins brought from the corn rows,
Umber lights of the dark,
Umber lanterns of the loam dark.
Here a dog head dreams.
Not any hate, not any love.
Not anything but dreams.
Brother of dusk and umber.
1.3k
Hello Poetry is our bohemian site
For the new counterculture
Of the contemporary beat.
The works are here.
Ginsberg's long gone.
Kerouac took to the road
Not taken yet by us.
This is our Greenwich Village,
And I can stay at home.
Now, and some years ahead,
I'll say I met and read
The likes of you,
Here,
On Hello Greenwich.
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
They fall upon us over the spillways of time,
Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia
Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial
Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf,
And we know them to be to be, if not outright falsehoods,
Among the more variable of truths
(As all truths are, if we’re being honest about the matter)
For when someone sets out to create the Great American Whatever,
It becomes quickly apparent that such paths
Are not straight and clear, but wind and double back upon themselves,
Replete with thorns and weeds with bladed edges;
Egos must be stroked, revenue streams and margins considered,
Leaving one’s primary legacy as a testament to compromise.
But to be a casualty is not necessarily to be a fatality,
And through the narrowness of a three-minute window,
Purveyed to us by quartets of chanteuses
Who were no strangers to compromise their ownselves
(So many staged photo shoots,
So many hokey Christmas songs and cosmetic-sale jingles)
We can glimpse momentary epiphanies,
Crescent-moon slices of the verities,
Which, if not the whole truth and nothing but,
Provide us with something to hold, something to hum
As we go about the tortuous business
Of making some sense of the whole **** thing.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 9:41 AM UTC
Leong's watching TikTok on her laptop (as always) and she asks Lisa (a NYC girl) “Are you familiar with the the “downtown girl” aesthetic?”
Lisa’s dismissive, “Yeah, it just looks like Urban Outfitters grunge to me.”
Leong explains, “It includes headphones and it’s supposed to be a Lower Manhattan style.”
“Yeah,” Lisa snorts, “Because Greenwich Village and the Lower East Side are SO cohesive.”
Lisa considers herself an Uptown girl (like the song) even though 59th Street, where she lives, is the border between Uptown and Midtown Manhattan. I’m learning that these distinctions are culturally key to New Yorkers.
“And,” Lisa adds, “why would someone wear, and lug around, giant, clunky headphones when you can use AirPods??”
“Amen sister.” I proclaim and even Leong nods in agreement.
“Later, Sunny, Leong and I are on a study break, eating salads and talking about who we hope Yale invites to the next “Spring Fling” concert. We aren’t being realistic; we’re covering who we wish would come. I’d named Charlie Puth, “Kat-Tun!” Leong squealed (A Japanese boy band - apparently Chinese girls LOVE their boybands) and Sunny countered with Ed Sheeran.
“I don’t like Ed Sheeran,” I mumbled, making a yuck-face.
“Why no Ed?” Sunny gasps with shock (She’s a big Ed fangirl).
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, “he’s a star by all measurable metrics,” I admit, “but,” I fade out.
“You want my theory on Ed hate?” Sunny offered, “He’s beyond talented vocally - whoever your favorite artist is, Ed’s probably not that far behind. He’s a stellar song writer and he’s making hit after hit; do you want my theory?”
“Too basic, too popular?” I guess.
“No, he’s not appealing to the gaze,” Sunny states.
“The gays?” Leong questions, stepping back into the conversation.
“No,” Sunny corrects, “the gaze - G-A-Z-E, he doesn’t try to look pretty all the time.”
“Ha!” I snort, “Gaze, I thought you meant gays too,” as Leong and I chuckle together.
“No,” Sunny laughs, “nothing like THAT. Ed’s just not trying to be a heartthrob, he knows that’s not his core strong point - and that’s why he’s discounted.”
“Like lesbians don’t comb their hair or wear makeup and wear pajamas to class” Leong observes, “they don’t want to attract the male gaze?”
“No, we’re not imbued by the male gaze.” Sunny states, “Ed just wants to lowkey.”
Dec 14, 2022
Dec 14, 2022 at 10:51 AM UTC
i wondered about a kiss
the way it would taste
like tahaitian vanilla
and your sunday coffee
down by greenwich village
where we saw all the worlds stage
through a rose colored glass
and those heavy eyes
when the grass was greener
and you left me there to die
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
7/1/2015
*"you will remember, for we in our youth did these things:
yes many beautiful things" - Sappho's fragments*
Greenwich Village, NYC
Only the 24th of June and
Simpson and i already
tire of the summer weather.
I always seem a little thinner these months
i note, i bite a strawberry candy and show her
how to light her lighter
just hand me the fork
no more callousness
both on palmflesh and human dealings
the building facades on Charles street
as in the southern Chawellsss....
she explains alcoholism runs in my family, you know?
i nod. no other problems i presume?
the community garden nods and
people who will always be richer,
prettier, strut past with tuesday briefcases
and their children's wheelcradles with ethiopian
and guatemalan hands on the handlebars
follow a block behind.
*But we're from Joisey, and **** proud of it!*
Lobster rolls and jimmies and johnnies and
boardwalk planks Erin dreams of
broadway instead and neonatal nursing,
who doesn't?
the only youth on the street that day we
teetertotter past all the cafes and pubs and
laundrymats
*you know, if this was the school year we'd
get picked up for skipping school*
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 6:22 PM UTC
Here I am in Greenwich park once again
to visit my aged and majestic friend
it's limbs reaching to the heavens
waiting to relinquish it's burden
My life to this great Oak is transitory
in less then 50 years my visits will become ephemeral
and as I, redundant of body then,
will be able the reach it's Acorn crown
To blend in it's greenery
merging with it's nature
to again become one with it
and watch the maelstrom of life's struggles
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 7:38 PM UTC
the minutes between
midnight and six,
individuals, unique,
each one,
all dears,
old friends.
2:22
3:37
4:11
rhythmic but differentiated
in so far as
each one,
brings me a completely
special, preying
poesy dream,
bittersweet symphony.
the digits of my mobile,
double duty alarming clock,
digits rigid, rounded,
ends slanted,
bold white pronouncements
on a back background.
double identity,
my cell, my clock,
screaming pieces of time,
bullets whizzing
past the sides
of my head,
"awake and listen"
there was a period,
once, when the
body clock was
more accurate
than the tick tock
in Greenwich, England,
precisely awaking at six.
now randomness reigns,
and the county clerk
bids me record
the precise awaking time
and the poem,
therewith associated,
4:47 AM
Seven months ago.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
A singular time in Greenwich Park
Walking amidst the tourists and lovers
Nervous and indifferent at the same time
You surprised me with your truth
And eyes that seemed to yearn for me to love you back
With a hand on your back
Teasing
You turned
And in a summer breeze
Sealed my soul with lips
That felt like coming home and leaving
Leaving you felt wrong
And coming home I sat with a new sensation
Normality
For perhaps the first time
It was good to be in my skin
Skin you had caressed
And I had let you.
Jul 22, 2011
Jul 22, 2011 at 2:38 AM UTC
friday morning,
we wake up hungover
from last night's binge drinking,
because even though we love our jobs,
no one really wants to work for their entire lives,
when so many things are unanswered,
perverted, and misconstrued.
hashtag all of those millennial catchphrases,
to garner hearts from your friends
who you haven't seen in years,
friends who work in San Fran,
Chicago, Greenwich Village.
crank up your laptop speakers,
as Neon Indian's Polish Girl
plays that **** synth,
and take a drag from a P-Funk,
before your Grandma hits your
shoulder with the newspaper daily—
right after she speaks in Vietnamese,
asking you what is your name,
because she has Alzheimer’s.
but in these social media days,
isn't everything that is worth mentioning to your sister,
everything that is worth fighting for,
everything that is ****** in this world,
on the internet (maybe, just Twitter tbh).
screenshot the cat meme you like,
save it,
share it,
move on.
if only she wasn't allergic to cats,
maybe it could have worked out.
that was 7 years ago.
*** ova it. Then, mix your red bull with your coffee,
because the next 10 hours of your life,
will be revolving around caring about people
other than your ungrateful and ingratiating ***
don't cry,
when I say good-bye.
stay for a while, under the shade of the rooftop
where the deejay spins Frank Ocean
and Frank Sinatra records,
as everyone is drinking scotch, or Yuengling,
and ashing over the veranda bansister,
; the bad boys try to open their souls
to the good girls. and the bad girls,
reveal too much to the good boys.
we devoured those drugs, as though
they were jelly beans from a convenience store,
and then we broke into the store
and ate some more.
break the coals on top of the hookah,
puff, puff, pass—
inhale, exhale,
fit the deformed piece
back into the Dinosaur puzzle,
and crawl back into bed,
pull the covers over
your trembling body,
shut your eyes,
and reflect,
for the day is heavy with regret
and unsaid things.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
Lights were on,
you were home.
His car,
watermelon green
boot static in front,
lit up as treasure
beneath a streetlamp globe.
Snow pinched
windshield,
fingers numb,
gloves with pentagonal
holes 'round the wrist.
Got out,
cold hit me
like the train squealing up
at Canal Street
near 2AM.
That's where
you found out
who I was.
I thought you were
another twenty-something
from Greenwich Village,
discount hairband
and a wrong shade
of eye-shadow.
Eighteen months later,
I can't even remember
what colour your eyes are.
Knocked the door,
a reckless mistake.
Heard a murmur,
rowdy thump down stairs,
a ****** of glasses
(wine? Surprise.)
It had been a while.
You were expecting me.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 11:09 AM UTC