The Songs of Dead Rivers
I lounge inside the songs of dead rivers
Where better women smile at me naked atop
The tufts greener than all Christmas trees;
But oh, how these lands are wicked, even
If calmed: The king is smiling even while
Possessed, while the traffic is heady and conductive.
I dress out for PE, but don’t work out:
I make laps around the basketball courts and take
Notes, while the Jewish students collect on the
Fiascos which they better perceive, which
They have been working towards, never mindful
Of even the soccer moms’ leggy tresses,
Their dun ring fingers and extroverted scents.
Now in the cacophony of Catholic churches the
Play strums: She is wearing the red dress, smoky and
Ethereal. From Canada, and a thief crawls through her
Window, and her eyes are for him and glowing
Something mythical. Like a fire in a horn up on stage,
Like a specific bouquet damply bequeathed above
A loved one’s coffin I have singled out, as I wait
For the trucks to come, to unload from them
Whatever it is I have to sell.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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