1.
It’s awful this morning. The windows are gray,
air pinpricks skin with cactus familiarity.
I do not recognize the disease.
The mattress is torn and the gods of love
are nervous. I cannot sleep here.
You left me huddled between pillows,
soaked in liquid thoughts.
These aren’t notes I dare sing.
I’m typing this far from the wagon’s table.
The coffee is tepid in the mug,
your lipstick still smeared red on the rim.
2.
My fingers strum the aluminum can
of an imaginary beer. This is the melancholy
of poets, balancing bar stools
on the tips of our noses, clowns
packed into Volkswagens
twelve to a case.
3.
The greeting card would say, I miss you.
Blake would ask, Did He who made
the Lamb make thee?
I just need to know
where you hid the keys
to my car.
Copyright ©1998, Angel Zapata
That is beautiful and powerful, Angel. Thanks for sharing it.
ReplyDelete"...the gods of love are nervous" -- Exquisite.
There feels like a far away voice just breaking through this piece, as if the POV's truths are at the cusp, the tip of the berg.
ReplyDeleteYou were definitely born a poet, Angel. You're posting some old stuff that in no way is cliché or even slightly embarassing as many older pieces are. I wouldn't dare.
Marvelous line, especially in light of the title:
ReplyDeleteThis is the melancholy
of poets, balancing bar stools
on the tips of our noses, clowns
packed into Volkswagens
twelve to a case.