write a short poem
is her request
followed by a deep
sleepy yawn,
something soft
and light with
no cynical over
tones. fluffy
and bright like
a white cloud
on an april day.
something that ryhmes.
she puts a period
on her thought
with a nice sweet
smile. her lips
are pink, like
candy. she's wearing
pajamas with little
roses all over
them. i pour another
tumbler of scotch,
and put my pen
down. i look at
her on the couch,
i look past her,
out the window.
i see a man on
a tightrope
crossing over
between two
buildings, risking
his life thirty floors
up, for what? he is
holding a long pole
with which he uses to
fend off imbalance,
he has found himself
in this dangerous
act. he is free,
from rebuke, from
love, from
childhood and old
age. he is on
the wire. he
is alone and yet
where he needs
to be. balanced
in mid air. i am
jealous of this man.
envious of how he
has simplified
his life.
well, she says.
can you do that,
can you write me
a poem like i just
described. no,
i say. i can't.
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2 comments:
I'm sure I met this man. He told me over wine that when the pole dips too far to the left, he worries he may never see the moon again. When it hovers precariously to the right, he worries his life won't be remembered. Even he worries. I like the simplicity here. Very nice writing.
i'd like a poem with a lot of cynicism, sharp as a knife edge, with some witty twists and turns, an innuendo or two, and definitely no rhyming, please.
(i do like this one, though.)
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