Red light
Idling at a
red light
the night
weighs down upon
the roof of my
car
tail pipe
trembling
it coughs its
white breath
into the 4:00
a.m. drone
of an empty
intersection
a diesel
engine sighs
somewhere
downtown
and curbside
rock salt
twinkles
beneath stammering streetlights
my cigarette
whispers
in its
indecipherable paper language
as I drag
deeply
and swallow
the smoke
I try to find
a reason
in this moment
justification
for all this
I want to know
that
everything will be okay
my eyes decide
to close
there is no
protest
and time
begins to pass
separate from
me
but I can hear
the snow
kiss the
windshield
and I imagine
the ephemeral
crystals
of each flake
each
individual flake
unique and
fragile and complex
disappearing
on my windshield
gone forever
in an instant
the purple
curtain
of eyelid
shifts to
green
my right foot
lifts
and finds the
accelerator
I hit the
wipers
and drive home
Don’t write it down
on the bed
lost amongst
heavy dunes of blanket
trying to stay warm
as cold air sneaks through
50 year old windows
snow and wind
swirl and howl
up against the siding
while we slither around the bed
reveling in our warmth
an ancient warmth
old as man’s first fire
from somewhere else in bed,
her face blocked by miles of
blanketed
winter desert bed-scape,
she tells me tales
from her childhood
as I pull filaments of fabric
out of the blanket
and wrap them around my finger
tips
her childhood is a story to me
so I listen
and as I listen
a deep well of crystal clear
silence pours through me
and my soul goes still
calm
our child
grows within her
and soon
our child will grow with us
here
in a life where so many belong
where so many become trapped
a life which nobody understands
although many
pretend to
they are the worst
stay away from them
our hands find each other’s
beneath throngs of fabric
and everything is right here
in this room
under these blankets
everything is right here
but later
I’ll try and write our story
instead of living it
leaving her alone in bed
to reach for a soul that is not
there
while I pour it onto these
pages
in the next room
soon, I’ll be on empty
so I’ll return to the bedroom
to find her sleeping peacefully
and this will be enough
and I won’t squander it
I’ll sleep
or at least, I’ll try
All that Wind
from my fire escape I can see
spiraling towers of smoke
pouring from Neville Island
the hellish grey island in the Ohio River
ancient smokestacks
leftover somehow by the industrial rustbelt circus
spew innumerable amounts of gas and particulates
day in day out
unknown flames burn through the night
old candles that forgot to go out
I cough on my dry cold cigarette
and stub it out on the frozen brick
on the couch
its winter and I’m poor
Eraserhead is on the screen
with its industrial wind
and incessant infantile screams
she’s somewhere in the background
seed in her own stomach
my seed
and her friend is here
complaining
complaining
complaining about jobs and guys and all around shortcomings
she still has not asked her
how the pregnancy is coming
and she says my friends don’t care
what a joke
the truth is
nobody cares
about anyone else
unless that someone
provides them with something
they can not provide
for themselves
the wind rattles a gutter
somewhere out in the dark
Ryan
Hardgrove lives in a small house in Pittsburgh, PA with his common law
wife. They are expecting a son this summer. When he is not writing, he
bartends downtown or paces in the basement.
No comments:
Post a Comment