deepundergroundpoetry.com
cold or not, god is present
springing from one base to next,
sunday weather played tag with me
flitting up sunnyside
as mist turned to showers
i squirreled beneath
douglas fir and concrete
shivered off wet opals
from my arm hairs
as gusts susurrated
around corners and branches,
the laughs of low clouds
who knew they won.
“haha, it got ya;
that’s portland for ya—
no one expects it,”
he said, an untucked prussian shirt,
buscemi smile, horseshoe of whiskers
harnessed to his scalp
by an unshaven curly chinstrap
belying an anxious waltz
from one foot to other,
as he listens to the traffic,
“ya hear that grate?
pure metal on glass.
tomorrow, that windshield’s
gonna be scratched up,
gonna be like what happened?
well yeah, should’ve seen it
coming,”
chiding no one in particular.
a thin stream of water meanders
down the stones like the
wrinkled seam of his oxford,
a silent minute comes to a stop
at the red light,
a line of cars behind it,
“i just want to have a beer,
sit down, and watch the timbers;
nothing to do with being here—
but no way around it;
worst part's already over
when mom was in the hospital,
we knew this was coming,”
he starts, bumping elbows with me,
and walks into the funeral home,
and i, not having said a word,
hoping the clouds think i’m gone,
disembark.
sunday weather played tag with me
flitting up sunnyside
as mist turned to showers
i squirreled beneath
douglas fir and concrete
shivered off wet opals
from my arm hairs
as gusts susurrated
around corners and branches,
the laughs of low clouds
who knew they won.
“haha, it got ya;
that’s portland for ya—
no one expects it,”
he said, an untucked prussian shirt,
buscemi smile, horseshoe of whiskers
harnessed to his scalp
by an unshaven curly chinstrap
belying an anxious waltz
from one foot to other,
as he listens to the traffic,
“ya hear that grate?
pure metal on glass.
tomorrow, that windshield’s
gonna be scratched up,
gonna be like what happened?
well yeah, should’ve seen it
coming,”
chiding no one in particular.
a thin stream of water meanders
down the stones like the
wrinkled seam of his oxford,
a silent minute comes to a stop
at the red light,
a line of cars behind it,
“i just want to have a beer,
sit down, and watch the timbers;
nothing to do with being here—
but no way around it;
worst part's already over
when mom was in the hospital,
we knew this was coming,”
he starts, bumping elbows with me,
and walks into the funeral home,
and i, not having said a word,
hoping the clouds think i’m gone,
disembark.
Published 15th Sep 2019
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15th Sep 2019 2:34pm
a silent minute comes to a stop
at the red light,
a line of cars behind it,
For some reason that imagery stopped me flat, gonzalo. While I loved the association between the weather and death - and sometimes not seeing it coming, there was something about the above three lines that made this so real. But simple moments always do, don't they?
Good poem.
at the red light,
a line of cars behind it,
For some reason that imagery stopped me flat, gonzalo. While I loved the association between the weather and death - and sometimes not seeing it coming, there was something about the above three lines that made this so real. But simple moments always do, don't they?
Good poem.
15th Sep 2019 7:37pm
that was actually the stanza i was most unsure about. it felt a little hamfisted, but i couldn't find a better way to phrase it, so i'm glad i had the wrong impression.
completely agreed on simple moments. sometimes it seems like the brief things that happen in passing, like random encounters with people i'll never see again, are what i involuntarily recall most nowadays.
completely agreed on simple moments. sometimes it seems like the brief things that happen in passing, like random encounters with people i'll never see again, are what i involuntarily recall most nowadays.
19th Sep 2019 2:59pm
Beautifully poignant; it feels like I’m eavesdropping on an intimate moment. Excellent write!
