Sunday, March 30, 2014

Willie Smith- A Poem


Because I don’t get it,
don’t get out
while the getting is good,
I get it in the heart.
Slumped over spaghetti,
just outside Gettysburg,
thinking of Paul Getty,
still I can’t
get it out of my heart.
The waitress tweaks the thorn,
jiggling past with ketchup.
The roses in her face
replace thoughts of Getty.
The Gettysburg dead all
rise at her passing breast.
Again my heart gets it.
I just don’t get it –
why the hurt of beauty
gets my heart.
She gets away and I
get the spaghetti past
my teeth into the gut.
The dead are mustered back
into the grave, Getty
gets the world by the tail
and I get this tale of
the rose, the thorn, the heart.    

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