It’s not hard to think of yourself, the
empty beer bottle, your sleeping wife
(on the border of despair),
the news that brews disaster after disaster
more revelations of harassment shootings
after school genocide on top of genocide
on top of genocide with no hope of solution
in the face/flames of protest.
I sit here worrying about my competence
my ego, my pocket book
thinking how will I survive, how my debts
will be erased, how my mind will be purged
or cleansed year after year.
The trail cannot be cleaned by the mop bucket or pail.
It keeps leaking and poisoning the soil.
In the cold grey morning
the birds talk, the cars honk, the dogs bark,
your eyes itched get rubbed because irritated.
You think you have nothing intriguing to write about
even though you know it’s not true,
you with the royal wedding clips.
It’s a joyous distraction my wife and
you must admit even if deprived of sleep,
even if the minister speaks of love this love
as the most purest of things.
You see a dark play that is so funny
Our Lady of 121st street by Stephen Adly Guirgis,
it brings you close to sobbing
except it has no resolution or ending
really for anything, and this my wife the playwright
says is the point.
In the cold grey morning it is supposed
to go up to eighty-two degrees
even though the sun may not shine at all
and the humidity will/can soak us through.
Micah Zevin is a librarian poet living in Jackson Heights, Queens, N.Y. He has recently published articles and poems in such journals as: The Otter; The Newtown Literary Journal and Blog; Poetry and Politics; Reality Beach; Jokes Review; Post (Blank); American Journal of Poetry; Tower Journal; Five2OneMagazine, the What Rough Beast Series at Indolent Books, Maudlin House, and has work forthcoming in the Heavy Feather Review. He created/curates an open mic/poetry prompt workshop called The Risk of Discovery Reading Series now at Blue Cups in Woodside, Queens, N.Y.
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