Friday, at long last. This first full week of work has been absolutely killer, but five more hours until freedom. And then next week, I’ll be leaving a tad early to head south for the Winter Getaway, which I am way psyched about. The year is off to a reasonable start, I suppose… hoping to relax a bit, but also get some things done, tomorrow and Sunday. Also have yet to select a poem to Refine for the second edition of the Refinery. I think I know which one I’ll be doing, but let this be your reminder to send yours in!
DVerse wanted poems that are imagistic, but with a deeper concept. (Which is how I tend to think good Imagist poetry with a capital I should be.) So, here’s a list poem about a thought bouncing around my head this morning; it’s New York, all the way. Other cities would be dressed much differently. There’s a few words and phrases I really like in here, and I hope the weft of the poem isn’t too plain to bury them in indifference.
What the City Wears
Blue jeans, pipelegged and long as an island
dipping its stitches in a moonshine bay.
Tuxedo shirt that could use some ironing,
with mismatched sleeves for each bridge and
each buried tunnel. French-cuffed, top button
A loose smoke-colored cravat, all ripple and flow.
Heavy boat shoes that challenge the step
but bear the mark of journeys. That sole worn
all the way from Hong Kong, that frayed lace
trailing with Nigeria and Pakistan.
Leaving their own impressions, walking on water
and carrying a bearer of miracles.
On cold days, a woolen jacket, sometimes
houndstoothed with white and grey, but mostly
drab and comfortable. No gloves. Dirty nails.
Contact lenses swimming in lake water,
cuff links sharp as half-constructed spires.
A single carbonado diamond that flashes
millionfold between its ragged breaths
like a fierce pulsar
questioning the sky.