sitting, two years later,

in the james center starbucks, i
am distracted by the business
which parades in suit, by
the slow, slow sound

of winter dying, its feeble thuds
keeping time with my own unarmed
chest. there is a meek half-light
outside the windowed-walls,

the sun un-warm & indecisive.
i am afforded a first-class view
of the parking garage,
the crimson-awninged atm,

the bundled cafe umbrellas.
i am waiting, brokenly:
for a car crash, for a lightning strike,
to see someone i recognize.

for you to catch hold
of my cheek and say, come,
let me take you home.
it is more limbo than

purgatory, the waiting;
there is no redemption at its end,
only the promise of a flatter
mattress and yellowed teeth.

as the poet said: there
is evening, there is morning,
and i think i loved you better
when we were

desperate. besides i
quit being a good catholic
years ago, now only
remember my rosary

when digging through
the jewelbox for a gold
chain you also didn’t give me,
also years ago.

This is kinda a re-make of a poem i did about two years ago, posted wayyy back here.

Sitting

close-legged in the James Center Starbucks i

channel my inner alchemist writing

molecules into dreams

and posing painfully

as another drip in the puddle

of humankind, my best sad delusions

melting into visible air breathed

over a single blade of grass

crowned with a frozen halo,

a

yearning or a universe trapped

there in the mud beside a stream

that flows where herons stalk

lost summer and only the

indigent and the inspired

tread the river-paths. The truth is i

love this place not two skips

from hell’s half-acre but

sometimes, lost in the ebb and curve

between railroad tracks and

monogrammed yesterdays i

wonder if the whisper

of the Devil can still be heard

above the hum of the wi-fi;

if those who sojourn in the

Burnt District of this

numbed century still

feel its scars and its sunderings

although

some things it seems haven’t

changed at all: men

are still shaped

by the subjects they should have learned

in grammar school and poets

still prefer windows and the

real truth of it is, i guess,

that here where the trains slow

and the James flows on uncomplaining,

herons have always stalked

lost summers, and ice,

like mankind’s worst

delusions, will always

melt

one sad drop

at a time.