THE TRUNK
I nudge aside some old poems
to get at the real poetry:
love letters from a former flame.
I’ve no idea why I’ve kept them
only that I’m a hoarder,
even of affection.
There’s something of nostalgia
to them,
like the Marvel comics
in very good condition,
or the copy of Sports Illustrated
with Larry Bird on the cover,
celebrating a championship.
The writing is neat,
the passion likewise,
nothing, I’m sure,
like the long-trashed missives
I sent in response.
Reading between lines is called for.
But, to be honest,
I find more neatness,
only it’s invisible.
From memory,
there was no great passion
between the two of us.
It’s what comes of listening to Yes together.
And decking ourselves out
in bell-bottoms.
But they’re part of history.
And, to my mind,
must be preserved.
But I throw in a few
more useless items,
bury those letters deeper
going forward.
It’s enough to know they’re there.
No place else would have them.
~
THE CIGARETTE LONG AFTER
A double downer:
I feel dirty as soot,
sheets smell like dumpster fires.
And here,
on a motel side table,
one cigarette burns a long, neglected ash.
No need to smoke it.
This room’s like a cigarette
with me cocooned inside it.
You and I shared this roadside hideaway.
Years ago.
Before there were flat-screen TV’s.
Before there was flat anything.
Now I lie on a lumpy mattress.
staring up at the nicotine-stained ceiling.
My teeth grind the grit
of what was once desire.
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