Tuesday, May 31, 2005

A First Post--in Honor of Walt W.'s Birthday

At the Bus Stop, Endlessly Waiting (shamelessly sampling)

At the bus stop, endlessly waiting, I look around

and hear a song like one my old friend sings.

Near Bourbon Street, there’s one that sounds

like a cell, so I almost pick up as it rings,

and at Twigg’s yet more birds trill. Everywhere I used

to drink has feathered sentinels on it.

Two more mockingbirds, perching, still stewed

with manly hopes for spring nests, not a bit

deterred, tweet like two dumptrucks in reverse.

I sit, remember the tunes; desperate cocks,

my brothers, sit in trees for weeks, or worse—

under an eave, above a bar, with no sunglasses.

Come into my Melaleuca; it’s cool!

The leaves are thick and we can hide

from any cat and nest and rest and rest

assured, the soft down of your breast

will love the spiders’ webs, the twigs inside,

the yarn and kitten’s fur—right by the pool!

By now, two weeks of baseball and he still

sits in his tea-tree, floats his curious calls,

so like a car alarm, a phoebe’s peeps.

My brother fluffed and trilled through winter’s squalls,

my brother rasped in vain on hot, desert

Santa Ana winds of Super Bowl

Week, 24/7 for months.

The 421

Club’s my spot—we slam shots, extol

the fine tunes, the good drugs, the big wads

we have, but there’s no one to nest with

and my beer’s gone, game’s over, time to bail.

Those willing, drunken dates are just a myth.

It’s getting late, my sweet, don’t mind the light

that cloaks with mist our bright retreat,

our nuptial branch, our bliss. Don’t miss our bliss

this year, my love—you’d be remiss

to merely flutter near. I’ll be discreet;

not one more peep from me, once we’re tight.

At the bus stop next morning my head pounds.

Nothing worked at Bocardo’s where she sat;

not the coke, not the weed, not the literate conversation

from my end, while she sipped burgundy, water back.

She said “thanks a lot” at one o’clock, then left,

not staggering like I was, as I stepped

home, riding cracks in the sidewalk, still bereft,

still on my manly quest, on post-game letdown,

as I passed my brother’s tree—he didn’t sing!

I can’t recall her face—just blue eyes, blonde hair,

the way her nipples poked her top—it’s baffling:

where to sit, what to show, with my Ray-Bans on.