Sunday, December 18, 2005

old poetry

With so many things to do today, I shouldn't be pawing through my computer files looking at random files for no reason. But alas, that is precisely what I was doing. I encountered this piece I wrote shortly after contracting EBV. I was on serious medication which made everything -- good or bad -- seem huge. Unfortunately, at that time in my life, most things were bad so I didn't get to enjoy the predicted euphoria my doctor indicated might occur. Mostly, I was just a wreck. To wit:


The commute home is hell.

Ken’s Towing truck
(a particularly testosteronic specimen
of spit-shined steel,
with an enormous
and garishly-lit flatbed
riding condescendingly high)
bullies the cars forward.

-- right in front now --
sticks steadfastly to 59 mph,
determined to teach Ken a lesson,
in all likelihood,
merely frustrating herself.

A Metro passes with
Easter egg color sunset reflection
rollerpainted onto its formed bus boards;
crystalcandymarshmallow pink and robinegg blue
drizzled over the dangerzone yellow
of a Volvo ad.

-- right beside it --
touches the fiberglass texture
with her eyes,
and lets the car
drive itself.

A stop at the store, a heavy duty mom’n’pop
with Spaghettio cans in military order
but floors bumpy like elm roots grew under them,
to get

Guy at the left of the door,
leans casually against an aging, rusted rail
(barely keeping him from falling down
a cracked, concrete stairwell leading to ?).
“Excuse me ma’am,” he grinds to a start,
assessing his next potential donor
but not stirring,
“would you have any spare change this evening.”

-- walking past him --
usually replies but, tonight,
is astonished by his insensitivity.
“Doesn’t he know I’ve got problems?”
The silent accusation sears her temples.

The only person in the store
who doesn’t have Kool-Aid tinted hair
(other than herself)
is the cashier.

The man under the Shop Rite sign
(across the parking lot,
by her car)
neither walks, stops, nor waits for Metro.
He stands
observing humanity and
proffering his opinion.
“Now, there!”
His there punctuates the air.
“There is the love of my life.”

A gallon of milk
-- purple cap --
swags unevenly against her leg.
“The city isn’t usually so cruel,”
the thought fills her head in
hundred-times-original-size sponge letters.

© 1997 Kelly A. Cox 2-24/97

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