The Widow’s Walk
Along the roof
So she could see
If her husband would
be coming home
Anchored to her son
She plowed ahead
While he trawled the depths
With broken nets
The soup of grey-blue fog
The stench of stagnant waves
A sickly breeze
Cold and damp
The lighthouse lost
What light it had
The Balustrade
Along the roof
Dressed in black
She wipes her nose
From behind her veil
She looks down
To wipe her nose
This is how it works, Sir
Make your money
Then wait in line to
Spend your money
Be the seventh
Out of seventeen cars
Waiting in line
To pick up your food, Sir
Talk to the man
With the nametag
Who’s come outside in the rain
With an electronic pad
To take your order
To expedite the service
To get you your food faster, Sir
Tell him the number you want
The second out of eight
But bigger
And yes, you’ll pay more, Sir
Comfort is always worth more, Sir
Wait behind the minivan
With two adults
And three children
And four flags
One sticking out of each window
An American flag
And three more stitched
With football team logos, Sir
Be the third now
Out of twenty
You beat the rush
Thank God for that
Don’t look at the other cars
And they won’t look at you
This is how it works, Sir
Burgundy rivers made blue
under soft, white silk
Tributaries branch out
and disappear
lost forever beneath the matt finish
of warm porcelain
dotted by the
contractions of salmon colored
mountain peaks
A smooth valley
slightly dips
and raises itself to my lips
Sure, you’re a poet
Look at you
Just the right amount
Of fake self-hatred
Mixed with ample
Doses of vanity
Disguised as
Openness and sincerity
Good for you
Pretending to suffer
Not having the slightest clue
About shame
About loss and pain
Roll up your sleeves
So that everyone can see
Your ornamental,
Self-inflicted, little scars
While you throw back drinks
With Bandini and me
Don’t do it. Don’t wish for it.
Don’t accept it.
Don’t be ok with it.
Between pain and indifference
I am that classified
Left-wing psycho
With the label on
My front pocket
Asking you
Not to dismiss this
Not to dismiss this
We are on the heavy end
Of a tipping scale
Between two polar thoughts
And the fact
That our interests
Will never coincide
Is the catalytic schism
Dipping this apple
In cyanide
Don’t just accept pain
Embrace pain
It may not feel great
But it’s a far cry from un-good
And it tastes
Just like hemlock
knife’s edge
yes and no
fine line
stay and go
simple switch
neurons hit
decisions make
ebb and flow
They will tell you
Secret cobblestone alleyways
They will tell you
Long-forgotten castles
Buried in the foothills of the Alps
They will tell you
Streams converging on rivers
Diverging back to streams
Running through endless fields
And carving through rock
They will tell you
A farmhouse sitting in a meadow
Quiet and happy with loneliness
Glowing on the inside
Whispering its warmth
Content with its agelessness
They will tell you
Meandering through a valley
Of pebbles, grass, and dirt
A meaty slug crawls on its ancient belly
Through an ancient wood
They will tell you
Barges passing each other in the night
Waiving their homage
To Bacharach and St. Goar
They will tell you
The shadows of bombed out churches
Slickened by ash and rain
They will tell you
A soldier and a civilian in love
They will tell you
They will tell you
That Germany is beautiful
