POtW
Claybo has selected this week's POEM OF THE WEEK, and his comment follows:
"I'm choosing "Malaprops: 9 a.m." by April38 for its (and her) keen evaluative observation and marvelous, fascinating sense of mood:"
"Malaprops: 9 a.m."
by April38
I purchase "The Language of Life" and settle
in the bookstore cafe for a cup of house-blend
sweetened with honey, stirred with wood.
A homeless man peers through the window
then enters: his gait still erratic from last
night's Mad Dog...he’s given an espresso-to-go.
Relaxing, I gaze out the window. Across the street.
A khakied Ms. beeps the alarm on her SUV,
then strides in for her morning brew of anomaly and news.
Laughter flows from the next table as a couple,
in their natural-fiber-foppery, sip decaf au lait
and chatter in French over bagels and mags‘.
“You Go Girl,” I mumble to a crone: her felt tam looking
jaunty over flowing cape as a walking staff and string bag
clearing the way for her wool-socked Birkenstocks.
Urban parents hustle their toddlers in (please God--
let them be quiet). Grabbing breakfast bites and stock
reviews they quickly part to day-care and hi-track jobs.
Ommm...apostles-of-grunge visit among the tables
their tofu-lean bodies swaying under dread-locked
turbans’ and beards too profuse for young wisdom.
Ahhh…New-Age lute and flutes waft
with smells of coffee, sweat, and patchouli
--lulls me in a world of few taboos.
This...is a dangerous place.
For I could spend every dime I have
and never leave this cassoulet
of pastry, bean and print.
"I'm choosing "Malaprops: 9 a.m." by April38 for its (and her) keen evaluative observation and marvelous, fascinating sense of mood:"
"Malaprops: 9 a.m."
by April38
I purchase "The Language of Life" and settle
in the bookstore cafe for a cup of house-blend
sweetened with honey, stirred with wood.
A homeless man peers through the window
then enters: his gait still erratic from last
night's Mad Dog...he’s given an espresso-to-go.
Relaxing, I gaze out the window. Across the street.
A khakied Ms. beeps the alarm on her SUV,
then strides in for her morning brew of anomaly and news.
Laughter flows from the next table as a couple,
in their natural-fiber-foppery, sip decaf au lait
and chatter in French over bagels and mags‘.
“You Go Girl,” I mumble to a crone: her felt tam looking
jaunty over flowing cape as a walking staff and string bag
clearing the way for her wool-socked Birkenstocks.
Urban parents hustle their toddlers in (please God--
let them be quiet). Grabbing breakfast bites and stock
reviews they quickly part to day-care and hi-track jobs.
Ommm...apostles-of-grunge visit among the tables
their tofu-lean bodies swaying under dread-locked
turbans’ and beards too profuse for young wisdom.
Ahhh…New-Age lute and flutes waft
with smells of coffee, sweat, and patchouli
--lulls me in a world of few taboos.
This...is a dangerous place.
For I could spend every dime I have
and never leave this cassoulet
of pastry, bean and print.
