Donal Mahoney- A Poem

Letter to Annie Far Away

Every evening, 

up in my rooom,

I try to finish a poem

but Chicago is hot

and it’s better outside,

strolling along the Lake 

or driving anywhere

with the windows down.

 

You sound good,

if undecided about things.

My life gets better 

no matter how hard I try 

to make it worse.

No medicine 

for a month now;

 

no poems, either.

I can’t recall my last

spontaneous erection.

I’d blame it all on the heat

but you’d know better.

 

Summer in Chicago

makes people accessible

and I’ve become chatty

in these later years.

I find that small talk 

with people oiled 

and stretched like tarps

on Pratt Avenue Beach

trumps any summer attempt

at revising a poem winter

revisions never made right.

 

We’ll see if my new affair

with society lasts. 

How long will I 

continue to meet strangers

who introduce me

to myself?