The place has mostly cleared out.
The gutters are slick with ice,
running still like glacier rivers.
A pall of fog enshrouds us
like God's great frozen breath,
bringing us in-doors where
thermostats control our hearts.
We're the warm-blooded.
Couples trickle off the streets,
clopping shoes across sidewalks,
echoes absorbed in the smoked air.
The wooden walkway
astride the new tower lot
is lit, staggered every six feet,
adorned with college student artwork
and empty.
The few cars drive off, and as their
motors die in the distance
the orange lights hum still,
singing their silent song to
everyone and no one at all.
--- ---
The other night I went late to an open mic poetry reading at the slick Pennyroyal Cafe. I arrived thirteen minutes before it ended, ready with poems printed and in my journal. But it was ending early, and I stayed seated. I wrote this in my journal afterwards. I also drew a picture of a chair.
--- ---
an example of some of that college student artwork--this is the first piece that graced the walkway
3 comments:
this is great. its makin me think about the beings among us who feel large and full and significant, and you know so well how small we are, and how that is far from cheapening...how its truly and purely enlightening to know
If I had been there I would have urged you to get up... in a way I'm glad I wasn't there because you might never have written this beauty!
Matt, this makes me sad. It's a beautiful little gem, but I want to go back in time and have you go up and read your poems to thunderous applause. What were those poems? Have you posted them? I'm so proud of you, you have my heart my precious, good son. I miss you, Mom
Post a Comment