Thru my bedroom window
I follow glimpses of a world
Much different than the one I sleepwalk through
Them crows upon the desolate branches
Don’t think of themselves as
Doom or death
As they huddle against autumn.
They don’t see themselves as omens of anything –
I lie there feeling silly for all of us.
They seem to know what they’re doing
Where they’re going
Now landing on a wire with
Eight hundred and seventy four
Of their closest chums, leaving me to wonder
Whether this pattern was discussed in the huddle
And though all I see are crooked, boney silhouettes
Against the morning almost-light
With their wraithlike squawking guests
Thru the narrow space where the curtain comes short,
The world is somehow bigger this way and more remarkable
The community they inhabit is more authentic
Than the one I will rise to…eventually –
I imagine all the talking cartoon animals of childhood at once
And wish I could will superstitions into being.
My problem is I can’t stop there –
Before I genuflect, I want to be sure of the outcome
I want to taste the candy without unwrapping it,
To rest on clouds without dying
To know that she’ll love me always
Before I say hello.
How lucky is the rabbit
With his foot in the trap?
“untitled muse 13”
Blues riffs are bigger than the bible –
smoke encircles the stage
like a spectral mosaic of St. Paul’s
guitar face –
Matthew rapping poetic about miracles
never saw calloused brown fingers
scraping distorted angels from the cold nickel strings
Notes never really die
they just join our other longings
in the back of the Bar.
My sister’s bike and my bike that is better, shiver in the rain
I can’t see it happening but
I know it’s true. When the spokes spin
I know it is the breath of God.
I believe that Legos can come to life
and shoot lasers like in the movies –
there is no adventure or glory beyond my reach
no miracle too remarkable
no scientific principle too firm –
the prattle of the elders is not all that noteworthy –
just want to get through my math homework and go back to creating galaxies.
Nicholas Petrone's poems can be found in many places, including The View From Here, Willows Wept Review, The Ranfurly Review, Poetry Superhighway, and in overflowing boxes in his attic. He teaches American history in Syracuse, NY.