I’ve been feeling like I need to expand my horizons lately. I mostly write autobiographical, not to say confessional, poems. I’m a great admirer of other people’s narrative poems, and I like the idea of the freedom a fictional setting can afford. So, here’s an attempt.
A tavern, so right, so clean, every chair in its place,
every light bulb unflickering bright,
every floor swept relentlessly:
This is where he comes
every day,
tie straight, collar clean,
shoes shined to piercing,
until every crumb has been consumed,
every glass empty,
and he stands, checks his trousers,
and walks, stately,
to the mens room,
slides the lock to,
and dances wildly to the mirror,
his best and only lover.
exiles child 