James Tate
An old man, few niceties, some stuttering
and near collapses. "I long to be abducted,"
he intones. Doesn't look up.
The first read through I can only see
his hands and a little white tuft under his lip
quivering. His voice is gruff and low, but
we're all laughing and our gaze is warm.
If he feels any of it, we can't tell. An hour in
I wonder if my life too could be summed up
in a series of anecdotes involving two people
and a bizarre crisis. He must have had
the same thought at some point.
Afterwards we're standing around
eating expensive cheese that will probably
give us all gas and my boss tells me to fix him
a nice plate and some coffee. So
I do, and he's out in the hall in a chair
looking smaller and older now. I am in front of him
giant and nameless. He sees me, in the form of
pastries and coffee, and says No (thanks.)
A long
pause
So this is how a poem occurs. A frozen smile;
leaden plate and cup; a swift and quiet rift
in mundane assumptions. I wrap his food,
take it home, and in the grave secrecy of my kitchen
calmly mash his fruit tart between my teeth.
Copyright © Julia Cheng | Year Posted 2009
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment