Old man in a
near empty house
bridge port to the sea.
(mortgage foreclosure assured)
late in your payments to life,
sits in a lavender lawn chair
meant for picnics or poor people—
pillows stuffed under his bum
like layers of sponge cake.
He sits at a handmade wooden desk
he forged with his own hands
finished in lacquer with the edges
of his fingers tips.
He types piles of words
forced together like a jagged
Japanese poem or something
resembling a Haiku forgery—
while two Persian cats, named
Tambala and Shebelle,
meow constantly with passion
and pain, hunger—
bowls empty, food dried, gone—
lying on the other side of the room.
Old man in a near empty house
bridge port to the sea,
buried in ivy near the sea
where no one ever goes,
when you expect them to.
~06-11-1980:
Revised 02-08-2011
Everyday Other Things
(Single Life in the City)
Two women
and a gentlemen
in a bar surrounded by singles.
Carpet the table in red,
the wall of the lounge in mahogany
faces between bland, humorous,
words saturated and imbibed
into singles culture in their 30’s,
into foolish gestures of wisdom—
turtles of human actors after hours
inebriated, idle with chatter.
The only man
at this table,
watches the women
entertain themselves
as women tend to do—
scratches his long sideburns
squints out his right eye,
as if he knows more then
than the women do.
He has already savaged
the room for wedding rings
and those without.
~2011
