by Greg Harrell
The Poet's Weekend
today finds me
in a Billy Collins
or Ted Kooser
state of mind—
temporarily unmasked
at a coffee shop longtable,
I listen to Silent Hill music
and try to make working poems
out of last week’s fragments
the students next to me
are confounded by the idea
of a bathroom passcode
dogwalkers pull
varying dimensions of fluff
by nylon harnesses
the electric gallop of trains
carries several blocks over
to my otherwise empty apartment
my death (as always)
sits three tables behind me,
sipping a lavender London fog
and waiting to call time—
since a beautiful woman
in a torn rain slicker
fails to materialize,
I use assorted personal
artifacts to fill the spaces:
the lionhead griever pendant
I keep as a lucky charm
a Palestinian scarf (or keffiyeh)
matching the hazel gears
beneath my eyelids
an onyx dharma bracelet
and dirty dozen watch
different leather notebooks
to preserve my vanity
the most recent note
on my phone says:
“forget I was ever here”
sound advice—