I was a poet as rooster in a Nissan Sentra
hair all Billy Idolized and i-don’t-care, preening
in rearview mirror, wet-footed rooster
posing as poet with a little Frank O’Hara
under my belt, gone lovestruck strutting
with hand-sharpened Ticonderoga #2
I would set her by a creek, on a landlocked gondola
set lunch before her in a thatched oat
straw cottage with black tea
Djarum clove smoke dripping from our lips
lazy eyed, we would cloudburst
and swig an aperitif of misbehaving
I rolled around with that slack-jawed
Guenevere long enough
poet enough to know that a rooster will
gaze at his betrothed until the sugar burns off
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Weekly Scribblings #27: Things Were Different Back Then
I really like the "cloudburst" as a verb. The word speaks of so much movement, so the use feels... natural. Interesting--and illuminating--comparison, too.
ReplyDeleteNice to be able to look back on one's young self with affectionate amusement. (Ahhh, those clove cigarettes! You triggered my nostalgia.) I love the tone, the story, the wordsmithing ... all of it.
ReplyDeleteQuite a young life, Gila. Those old days were fine, but for NOW I like it like we have it. I learned of the Djarum clove here tonight, just as I learned of the Blunts a few years back from blogging. I've now smoked either although if I had grown on our farm I would have, I smoked every kind of weed there. Hemp grew wild, but my mom said only people in NYC smoked that and they had he good stuff there. Nice poem, lovely setting.
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This sent me researching for Frank O'Hara, Ticonderoga #2 and Darum clove! It was a learning experience, after which I enjoyed your poem!
ReplyDeleteThis is wonderfully written. I love the nostalgia in this and the image of clove cigarettes.
ReplyDeleteGazing, not writing. Strutting, not writing. Where's that Ticonderoga #2 now?
ReplyDeletegreat last line ~
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