At 12, the boat is rocking,
you hold on tight to an oar
dipped in tremulous waters;
you wander down the mirrored heavens--
a stocking floats in view.
At 25, marginally,
your tears fall on the wash basin;
cracked tiles reflecting spectres,
ribbons wrapped around wiry necks,
stiff and cold.
At 33, music drifts from the upper balcony.
In familiar nights, vagrant notes
pour out with the smoke
from your wasted pipes--the steam comforts you,
makes you watery-eyed--and you sigh,
oh lowly drifter.
At 49, in a fluorescent tunnel,
you hum emptily to your seatmate,
empty air,
when the oncoming glare and the screaming horns
seize the last toxic smile from your lips.
Author notes
Rides in the subway always make me contemplative...
A contest entry
- Image 19 - by NurseChilly.
625 points, ended February 27, 2007, 17 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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perhaps a bit over ambitious for one poem- would love to see this broken down and studied a bit more in a vignette format- a lot to work with here- a solid outline- thanks for entering
m -
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Thank you for your criticism. I agree that this piece is perhaps just the tip of the iceberg. There are many paths I could still explore, and maybe in time the piece will bloom fully. I'm not sure though if it will lead me to breaking it down in a vignette format in particular. But I thank you for the thought.
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And yet, what happens later on.......
A sad decline into ignominious nothingness...
Erectile disfunction for the boys
And wizened tits for the girls.
Bugger me, it's a man's life growing old. -
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Oh god...wizened tits... It's never easy for a woman to be reminded of that. Maybe it's enough to have some think of killing themselves before gravity takes its merciless toll on our aging flesh.
It's nice to see you dropping by to comment on my poem, my dear. I hope this year is not turning out to be one of those grey wasted splotches like yesterday's cigarette ashes on the tray. Still, we muddle through. (I think I am being more morose now bec. I am starting to feel the weight of a graveyard shift job...and I have discovered Yeats too..)
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well the last line is a killer....
gosh
many thanks for entering our contest and good luck too...
an interesting piece for sure
G.x
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