Marc Swan, 04/12


                                    for Mike


Here I sit head in hand contemplating
the lemon of despair;
my eyes watery
and warm, hot actually,
maybe it’s
the gas logs spewing currents
of heat around and around
my feet.
I’m not dead
yet but sometimes
when that lemon
appears I feel a jolt
then a charge
then the battery begins
its slow painful march once again.




In the gloaming we search for detritus to remind
us how unconscious words can be when they mean
no more than the letters in which they are written.

I think these thoughts. The tinny words like windmills
scattering reason here and there and here again.
Tonight my friend on the phone said I should write

a poem about meeting with my first wife last week;
a chronicle of a space in time, an unprovoked
encounter that lead to nowhere in particular.

It’s been 37 years since we last shared a glass
of wine, talked, spent any time together and here
we are, she and her husband, me and my wife

sitting in a local bar drinking wine with me listening
to her tell the gathered four of all the adventures
we had shared in that long ago time in LA. In the

seventies when it all mattered so much more than
it ever would now. She knows names, places, events
that haven’t surfaced in my head in all these years.

One voice, three pair of distracted eyes, the bill
is paid, we share e-mails and go our separate ways.
All that remains is a long pan and a slow fade to black.

Promote. Poetry.
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