I stand at the intersection and listen
to the obsessed buzz of the pale walk-light man,
a man never known to actually walk,
as I scan the streets for my wife.
She comes across my eyesight’s horizon
carting the wheeled bag as she hustles to make
her train to Boston. Honey, I tell her, I’m
taking another night here by myself
if I can get a room. Her eyes widen
and film a little but she knows what I mean.
I hurry to the hotel and secure one of two rooms left.
After the evening reading, where labia and clitoris words
resound the Universalist sanctuary, I find my new room,
stream Mahler’s Fifth through tiny notebook speakers,
and revise two poems I’ve carried for thirty-six hours.
But the bed is vast, much larger than last night’s.
It swallows this alone poet’s post-midnight collapse.
- Spotlight: Long Beach Poetry Festival (cadencecollective.net)
- The 25th Aldeburgh Poetry Festival, 8 – 10 November (prfire.co.uk)
- Today Is National Poetry Day, But Does It Matter? (thepoetryquestion.com)
- #PoetryWeek – poet Suzy Ayers (alifeamongthepages.wordpress.com)
- Poetry isn’t dead yet, but it is hiding. (zsmithy.wordpress.com)