Intersection

It is on the corner of Beech and Maple
that I suddenly forget which world I am in.
It is the sight of the flatbed truck that does it,

the truck that carts three stone tombs.
Encrusted with glittering gems,
each tomb is large enough to fit a family.

A man in a suitcoat waltzes towards me,
shifting a Slinky from hand to hand.      
I desire eye contact. I long to ask,
Is this the first time I am meeting you? Or the last?

The trash-pile on the curbstone:
violet and white polyester yarn, in the shape

of what could be an afghan.
Nightstand splattered with drops

of red sealing wax. Cookbooks, a tidy stack,
sticky covers of cornflowered contact paper.
A very short cane. The scent of pineapple juice.

A woman eight months pregnant sighs
herself up the stairs of her duplex. Ten million nine hundred

forty-nine thousand one hundred and thirty five babies
will be born before hers comes wailing into this world.

 

A styrofoam cup rimmed with magenta lipstick

has settled on top of the olive green metal box

that jails the days newspapers.
Headline: woman collapses and dies
upon learning son was killed in the war.

Parked car, sideview mirror, a glimpse
then it’s gone, of a profile.
Cameo perfect. She must be seventeen.
Seventeen-year-olds are always exquisite.

The suit-coated man with the Slinky
steps through my square of the sidewalk.
Is this the first time I am meeting you?
Or the last?

Reviews

[Stephen Churchill]

perfect.

[James Paulin]

I loved the degree of filigree. Fascinating poem in every way possible.

[Ed Hart]

oh, you are too clever for any one man...I'm sure two weeks later they grab their slinky ways and head for the sunset...

[Lynn B Glover]

A very good discriptive poem, emitting all the happens around you. Very good work and be sure to keep an eye on the man with the slinky. Your friend Lynn