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curled at his feet
������������������we�ve locked him away,
white-eyed villagers speak behind
their hands, mouth-to-ear lest he hear --
yet he is lost in the black note
of a cypress, an obelisk on opalescent sky,
all else forgotten in fumes of turpentine
chestnut trees gone to blight
yield no games of conkers, instead
children lift the evening news
from his porch for paper planes
������������������������������to pass the time
a capful will do, fill the empty caf�
with the Milky Way - now patrons join him
in pagan ritual,
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 Strange Bedfellows |
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���������������������a woman at the cypress
bar where marble fountains drip
pistachio stars into vacant eyes
she�s fashionably gaunt, hair so black
and lips so red -- from barflies:
��������������you could've posed for Picasso
go home to your husband,
from men in suits pressed against windows
������mais les deux gamins - he and she -
������ride off into dawn on their chains
������and sprockets - deliver the crowd
������their last regards
wrapped in his handkerchief
***
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PJ Nights  |
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