Saturday, February 7, 2009

Boston Poems

Girding my loins and writing these up before they get any older.

You know how it is. I can't let them sit.

Not the phone
I thought I felt it in my breast
Pocket; but it's not the phone
The tremble in my chest -
The face is blank; it's not the phone.


Shuffling, they meet at the pass
Don't look each other in the eye
He swam every morning then,
Said he'd handle everything,
Now he's a fast fish in this sea
Of slow walkers, ladies years his younger.
When he said to my little cousin
"Don't worry, I'll handle it,"
I almost broke down there and then
We've exhausted him. Exhumed it;
Thin white and dried, rough as his cheek.

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