2/30
It must be five o'clock already
in Chicago, the clouds are full
of hail.
The books on the shelf are
segregated, one for fiction and one
for non. I hear them shouting
at one another. They shout
letters of the alphabet.
At the antique store on Western
the son of the old man talks
about the deal he got on the fabric
upstairs--because some old lady died
and nobody knew how much
that fabric was worth
In the room that is second to the
entrance there are bins of old
photographs. An old man squats, tending
to a tree. Dad. Sun Morn. '48.
I guess nobody knows, but I'm
standing over these bins and
I can hear the books at home yelling
the alphabet at one another.
It must be five o'clock already
in Chicago, the clouds are full
of hail.
The books on the shelf are
segregated, one for fiction and one
for non. I hear them shouting
at one another. They shout
letters of the alphabet.
At the antique store on Western
the son of the old man talks
about the deal he got on the fabric
upstairs--because some old lady died
and nobody knew how much
that fabric was worth
In the room that is second to the
entrance there are bins of old
photographs. An old man squats, tending
to a tree. Dad. Sun Morn. '48.
I guess nobody knows, but I'm
standing over these bins and
I can hear the books at home yelling
the alphabet at one another.
i also likes this one
ReplyDeletei like how it progresses, the elements of the "story"
Really easy to follow. I ditto the comment Anis made.
ReplyDeleteI might also be really fond of this one because it goes really perfectly with the 1940's-esque song I'm listening to at the moment. Kudos for anticipating my mood when you were writing this. ;)
I want to get more of a sense of loss into this one. it just seemed like the whole world was full of ways of forgetting people. old pictures in bins. books on shelves. but I don't know how to make it a part of the poem. I have trouble getting to the points of things.
ReplyDelete