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Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence

 Drunk, I kissed the moon
where it stretched on the floor.
I'd removed happiness from a green bottle, both sipped and gulped just as a river changes its mind, mostly there was a flood in my mouth because I wanted to love the toaster as soon as possible, and the toothbrush with multi-level brissels created by dental science, and the walls holding pictures in front of their faces to veil the boredom of living fifty years without once turning the other way.
I wanted the halo a cheap beaujolais paints over everything like artists gave the holy before perspective was invented, and for a moment thought in the glow of fermented bliss that the bending of spoons by the will was inevitable, just as the dark-skinned would kiss the light-skinned and those with money and lakefront homes would open their verandas and offer trays of cucumber sandwiches to the poor scuttling along the fringes of their lawns looking for holes in the concertina wire.
Of course I had to share this ocean of acceptance and was soon on the phone with a woman from Nogales whose hips had gone steady with mine.
I told her I was over her by pretending I was just a friend calling to say the Snow Drops had nuzzled through dirt to shake their bells in April wind.
This threw her off the scent of my anguish as did the cement mixer of my voice, as did the long pause during which I memorized her breathing and stared at my toes like we were still together, reading until out eyes slid from the page and books fell off the bed to pound their applause as our tongues searched each others' body.
When she said she had to go like a cop telling a bum to move on, I began drinking downhill, with speed that grew its own speed, and fixed on this image with a flagellant's zeal, how she, returning to bed, cupped her lover's crotch and whispered not to worry, it was no one on the phone, and proved again how forgotten I'd become while I, bent over the cold confessional, listened to the night's sole point of honesty.

Poem by Bob Hicok
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