Sat on a leatherette sofa waiting for my order.

The kitchen looks to be in some disorder.

The staff are flirting,
The customers deserting.

Leaving me still sat on a leatherette sofa wondering,

Where in the hell is my order?!

dear iron maiden

leatherette bound spine

worn blue dress

gaslight district cafe smile

eighth floor

ninth floor

whatever

i’m here

four doors down

knocking on

thrift store loneliness

that you just can’t give away nowadays

we

dare polaroids

point and laugh

but not of mockery

catalog pictures

a galaxy or two

more panoramic for any shutter

wide angle lens

a thousand batted lashes

and double takes

i’m easy to capture

and purposely left behind

like a coffee cup beyond the windowsill

beneath the screenprint letters

(and) for your eyes

——————————-

wednesday

The
Dublin
strand
is papered
in wind,
my old
book
renewed
into
romance.
I love her.

Pen
scratches
the
whole
page
black,
& variant
sprawls
of my
name
repeat
until I
own a
house.

Sister
& I
in dad's
old car
head
up to
Petworth,
& walk
back
under
a sky
that
rolls
& folds,
a bolt
of cloth.

Break
new trees
on the
prison
island,
handcuffs
of ivy,
jump
the fence
& escape
to the
highway.

In
Georgetown,
lush reeds
wave from
the canal
bottom,
easting
in the
chartreuse.

Then cross
to Dupont,
thronged
with
day-enders
and students
shifting
from
coffee to
*****
as the
hour rises.

Scheherazade
cancels,
but I make
the best
of it,
writing at
the bar
next to
the girl
in leatherette.

The day
ends
with me
fighting
the pharmacy
of my
sleepy
blood
while I
break
the bed
I always
hated
and
throw it
into the
orange.

Day's done.
Another
year to
come.
Thinking
of her -
sleep.

I remember dad lying
in a hospital bed breathing,
but not much more than that.
Hours were spent watching assistants
come and go.
Televisions droned through the hallway
from other rooms,
echoing through my head
like an old movie playing at
4 a.m.
after pulling a drunk.
Rousing moans from dad
punctuate the tedium.
Sweat pools under my thighs
from the high-quality,
leatherette upholstered chairs
that only one hundred thousand dollars
of medical care could provide
in a hospital room.
Mornings
brought the same parade of people
pressing and probing dad.
Occasional visits from the resident physician
yielded timeless comments like,
“we just want him to be comfortable,”
and my personal favorite,
“have you been here all night?”
Stupid question.
After all the “outpourings” of concern
from friends and relatives
(who I haven’t seen nor heard
from since the dirt was shoveled over his casket),
their visits can only be topped
by the Sunday-after-church-crowd,
who desired only to brand dad
with their version of beliefs -
God bless them.
As they were leaving,
I could most certainly detect the pride
they felt in themselves
for their courageous visit to the dying.
And then came death.
And here I am at 4 a.m.
in the morning two years later,
listening to a two-bit movie drone on the TV,  
wondering if dad listened to the
Sunday-after-church-crowd.

© 2010 C.T. Bailey

My mother’s second cousin
went to a fine university,
majored in anthropology,
and wore Italian wingtips
and a black fedora pulled
down rakishly over one eye.

I hear he was a handsome man.

He joined Toastmasters
and spoke extemporaneously
to small crowds of strangers.

He packed a leatherette
bag and went bowling
every other Sunday night.

He took his children camping
and taught them to catch a fire
with magnesium and tinder.

He mowed the lawn
with lapidary precision;
neighbors admired
his yard: brilliant green,
sharp as an emerald.

He played the spinet piano
in the hallway after dinner,
the metronome clicking out time.

His black suits—
immaculate skins
of a domesticated
creature—smelled
of cigarette smoke
and fountain pen ink.

But, according to my mother,
something went wrong along the way.
He began to hunger for something that clawed
just beyond the evenly trimmed hedgerows.

He smiled at night, listening
to malevolent creatures leaping
from rooftop to rooftop.

He began to hate his wife’s
brown dresses: brown is
the color of compromise,
he seethed to himself.

His voice became quieter;
bowling became a bother.

Eventually,
he left his fedora hanging
on the coat rack in the hall.
His neglected wingtips gathered
dust in the bedroom closet.
The pockets of his favorite suits
swelled with cryptic notes, written
to himself with stolen fountain pens.

One night, when the children were sleeping,
he set the table and killed his wife with a spoon.

I hear he was a handsome man.

The bacteria within my clogged nasal passage fight to see the light
My sandpaper throat takes up arms to be heard over the deafening din
Come into the light, she says; embrace what you are, how you look...
Who you seem to be;
But I can't, I don't want to, I shan't.

I turn around, take a step away
Two steps now, my black socks getting dirtier every second,
Every minuscule moment of this pathetically dull existence
Words, spinning within my metaphorical brain
Hurtling around: subsonic, then super
Uncatchable first, incomprehensible now
Raw, wild, honey & dates
Thaw, mild, funny fates.
Intertwined, intersecting
Neutral, calm, unaffecting.

Lo, and behold
The minty phosphorescence of a happy soul
The harsh contrast of a cerulean one, serene and calm
Bells in the distance, tolling
Strolling along a cherry blossom-lined pathway to nowhere.

Light cutting shapes through the dusty fawn net
Reflecting off the velveteen cushion, scarlet
Dancing now, on the sequined gold but torn
gold, but torn
Torn table cloth, snagged by the claw of a domesticated feline.

Tail wagging, agitatedly
Fast now, then slower
Claws exit the sheath
The fire within causing the ringing of multiple high pitched alarms
No smoke to do the detecting
Old bloke, what are you protecting?

Of that old but weary
Old
Weary
Leatherette case, rexine perhaps?
Yes, rexine. You are the rexine of the universe
cheap, spoilt and ugly
peeling off
looking in the mirror at myself
yes, she says, I am rexine.

But no, I am the dancing celestial light of 3 AM,
I am the beginning of a cat's purr.
I am the lost dusty books of an auctioned abbey
I am the last drop of water.

The sky on a bad day,
Clouds gathering
Soap lathering, (Made in France (c))
It says.

I am the 2% navy-dark-ink-pale blue of an underappreciated sunset
Viewed from a filthy beach.
I am the cracked glass in the cupboard that someone has forgot to dispose of

I am the unregistered number plate
the first dry petal of a once fresh marigold
Offered out of sheer boredom, playfulness

I am the sticky key of an old 1989 keyboard
I am the grease stain on your favorite shirt.

I am the betraying exposed underwire of your favorite bra
I am the lost button.

The maybe, the perhaps, the never
The maybe the perhaps, the ever

The gestation period of a tiger, she says
Is 113 days.//

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

             A Chewing-Gum Girl Waiting for the Sunset Limited

Long, long ago

In the station at Tucson we waited
Someone said the locomotive had burned in the desert
A girl with earphones chewed gum through the hours:
Roundy-CHOMP, roundy-CHOMP, roundy-CHOMP-CHOMP

Her eyes were closed, her music was her god
She clutched a leatherette case of tapes
Just as some clutch a Bible, and chewed:
Roundy-CHOMP, roundy-CHOMP, roundy-CHOMP-CHOMP

Her mechanical chomps could have been the rhythm
Of the passenger train that wasn’t there
My paperback novel never joined in:
Roundy-CHOMP, roundy-CHOMP, roundy-CHOMP-CHOMP

I don’t remember her boarding the train
That in the evening finally arrived
She might be in the Tucson station still:
Roundy-CHOMP, roundy-CHOMP, roundy-CHOMP-CHOMP

Before Mark Twain knew he would
Always love Becky Thatcher the boy
Sam Clemens  knew her as a just a
girl in the neighborhood  Saw her as
A fellow child jumping rope giggling
To her friends Not his  It was the same
With me when I was small- there was
A girl Pauline with pigtails and very
Shy.  We never spoke but I just knew
She very nice and proper too much so
To notice  a mutt like me Such like was
The girlhood of my wife All she gave
Me was a sketch of a girl I never met I
did not know I loved her back then but
I know it now.  I know it now.

My Dad he not  long before  he died
Made her a bright tangerine colored kind
Of hassock that when you zipped it open
Four tangerine cushions were stuffed in it
It was carefully crafted something I
Could never make and She loved it
.  It was leatherette and a a little gaudy
where has gone to I  do not know
but I think .ll find it with  her in
Heaven where  Father  took her When I
Was faraway I loved her then and I love her
Now She  was the  girl for me; now  she.s gone
  l loved when I saw her skipping rope
n my mind
So long ago
I loved her then
I love her still


For Barbara

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                      A Connoisseur of Clinic Waiting Rooms

I could regale you with tales of puppy dogs
Painted with matching little argyll vests
And Kodachrome sunsets snapped long ago
Darkness and dust settling on a fading lake

I could detail for you leatherette chairs
In rows beneath the television on the wall
Facing old women shrieking in HD
And years-old magazines that no one reads

A door opens to a whiff of germicide
My name is called – and there’s no place to hide!

“Come to lovely Looe!” They said,
“And see the Jewel of Cornwall’s shores-
Where Cider, Cheese and Ale and Tea,
And Pasties rare will all be yours!
See Seagulls wheel, and Sardines sport,
In lovely Looe, our River Port –
Where golden beaches tickle toes,
And ***** and Ice Cream please the nose;
In Trago’s woods, hear Peacocks call;
And finest fish is here for all;
Where Farmers till the richest land,
And in the evening form a band;
To play ‘The Floral Dance’ I trow,
Or ‘Trelawny’s Air’ in measure slow.
And should you crave for Chips or Pies,
Or fine dressed Crab, sweet Fudge or Fries,
Then look no further; for the wise
And learned seek no more respite
Or ever eat another bite.
But wait! We have not told you yet
Of Sunshine, Sea and Leatherette;
Where bucket, ***** and children’s hand,
Build Castles fine upon the sand;
Where hardy Souls, in weather fine,
Do swim and frolic in the brine;
Or blessed Looe Island, Where tis whiled,
Our Saviour walked when but a child.
And in the evenings, music plays,
At festivals, and other days;
In taverns local to the town,
Where many a pint is quafféd down.
But ask no more what you should do;
Come join us here! There is no queue!”

I rode my Bike; I went to Looe;
And bless my Soul, It all was true!