Wednesday,
Hey, the first poem for my poetry book. Still needs some work, but I think it's working well so far. The title: Yes, I know the second word in a hyphenated title should be capitalized, but I chose to do it this way. Maybe I'll change it later. Interesting thing about this poem. I went to this place called the Brewhouse on Main St. to get something to eat before a meeting with some young moviemakers. I was sitting there watching the barkeep run around (lots of customers) and I noticed this group of girls shooting pool. The rest of the poem just came out of that simple moment of watching people.
each time she abruptly halts, slaps the bar-top’s face
with her white bar towel. I love the rough way she sops up
tiny puddles of beer-glass sweat she just knocked
unconscious with one deadly blow.
just in time to ask the bearded man perched
on the edge of his favorite stool,
about peace and love in the 21st century . . . or something . . .
visually frisking me with her predatory stare,
“You got $12.47?”
with the keen awareness
of the red-tailed hawk.
swarm the pool table where a football guy
attempts a difficult shot; he doesn't make it.
A final, sad squawk from his adoring fans
and all falls as silent as a dove’s wing.
as clear as beer in a water-stained glass,
as transparent as the Hipster lyrics
digging holes inside my eardrums:
She’s sure I’m up to no good.
rrw o2-o4-15
Hey, the first poem for my poetry book. Still needs some work, but I think it's working well so far. The title: Yes, I know the second word in a hyphenated title should be capitalized, but I chose to do it this way. Maybe I'll change it later. Interesting thing about this poem. I went to this place called the Brewhouse on Main St. to get something to eat before a meeting with some young moviemakers. I was sitting there watching the barkeep run around (lots of customers) and I noticed this group of girls shooting pool. The rest of the poem just came out of that simple moment of watching people.
Red-tail
The
bartender circles above us,
huge,
metal earrings smacking her upside the jaw each time she abruptly halts, slaps the bar-top’s face
with her white bar towel. I love the rough way she sops up
tiny puddles of beer-glass sweat she just knocked
unconscious with one deadly blow.
And
suddenly, like a beautiful red-tailed hawk,
off
she flies to the other side of the liquor island just in time to ask the bearded man perched
on the edge of his favorite stool,
“You need another?”
His
pigeon head bobs; he mouths a silent “yes.”
“Some coffee over here?"
I
shout a bit too loud. An unidentifiable Hipster song
bombards
the Brewhouse with inarticulate lyrics about peace and love in the 21st century . . . or something . . .
The
Keeper scans me from head to foot,
then
foot to head, visually frisking me with her predatory stare,
"No refills."
"Can I get a burger too?" “You got $12.47?”
I
slide a twenty towards her.
She
swoops it up, examines it with the keen awareness
of the red-tailed hawk.
Pool
table #3:
A
gaggle of sorority girls
chugging
huge mugs of beer swarm the pool table where a football guy
attempts a difficult shot; he doesn't make it.
A final, sad squawk from his adoring fans
and all falls as silent as a dove’s wing.
Awkward
moments, a very solemn moment
in
which all becomes clear to me, as clear as beer in a water-stained glass,
as transparent as the Hipster lyrics
digging holes inside my eardrums:
“This is the first day of my life . . ."
The
red-tailed hawk
is
watching me again.She’s sure I’m up to no good.
rrw o2-o4-15
No comments:
Post a Comment