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Lamppost





I went to Willowmar,
down lanes lined on either side
with Yew and Huckleberry
in great hunched balls,
to see the new whores,
just arrived from Seattle.

A boy, not eight years old,
waited, as instructed,

one hand glued to a lamppost,
while his father skulked pussy
through some dark doorway
across the street.

I had come to find Fiona,
gone wrong and wandering
from wicked place to place,
come to read her poetry
about home.

That's all.

But, Fiona wasn't there.





In a list

A contest entry

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Comments


  • corrughadh
    February 28, 2008
    Edit | Reply
    fuckin great.. without a doubt


  • just rob gold member
    February 15, 2008

    Edit | Reply

    Well Done

    This tugs. I wonder if Fiona wrote so well.

    The " lanes lined on either side
    with Yew and Huckleberry" stand in such stark contrast with the grit of the story.
    I love the way the reader is transfixed by the character, "Fiona", left wanting more of her story, more of yours, the boy's. What a good sort of hunger it leaves me with.


  • Night Hope gold member
    February 7, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    "I had come to find Fiona,
    gone wrong and wandering
    from wicked place to place,
    come to read her poetry
    about home."

    Sighhh...Fiona doesn't have a clue what she missed out on, then. I can only dream of someone looking for me to read me poetry about home. Incredibly visual, vivid & visceral, my Friend. Good luck in Rob's contest, Scribe. Lovely to see a posting from you, Sweetie. Wanda