Threads
He
must have something concrete
beneath his slumped gait, his gallant
moves to the right, snapped back,
in favor of left, with a tilted head
and twisted grin, meant for coming on.
It is a comma coma, before the pause,
think twice, it's only gramma screaming,
grammar in her most auspicious voice,
the tiles are cold on winter feet, they tend
to make the skin bump, but there's nothing
hiding between the fibers left from some
room filled crazy Sunday, the Yankees
blaring in black and white from an ogtagon
screen: And we all know now, that
black and white keeps the color better
than a twisted interpretation, besides
all the real men have gone home.
They tend gardens now,
plant their seeds in early spring
between a hoe and a shovel
the sun rises and sets
while they dream of
watching something grow
again, and again,
it keeps them going,
going, and then
gone.
...these commas make me think of her—the
one who writes the "so
what" poetry. The one who nices her way to somewhere real people don't care to be.
She writes...
It appears the morning paper
spoke of grits and gits to share
while smoke rings from her shadow
circled in the smoky air...
there's a beat to life
and a beet to eat
and a stranger's knife
and a kiss too sweet
...and it all goes on...and on...and on.