Why You Are Not Here
“Roberta: Are you blushin’?”
– John Patrick Shanley
Does the sun softly heft its sallow mug
over the cracked tickles of sandy rocks
because it frets we’ll leave by nightfall?
The street corner where kids pretend to divorce
grows cold to the footstep. They liked to sell
cookies & lemonades on the street, not to it.
Watching them split up newspaper & love
anew soured my eye with childish things.
Girls would throw tantrums in the rice
if they wound up blossom droppers
instead of the great white bride.
An agreeable boy would accept by show of heart
the excited tugs on his old, rumpled shirtsleeve.
He’d fold his hands as he vowed I will to her.
What will I do when I meet someone
who doesn’t make me feel like vomiting?
The sick will steam from the hushed tongues
of my victorious underdog boy sport sneakers.
I worry I’ll have the money, the hour— what if I joke
proper to her style of flaunting her face of snappy teeth?
Then I’d have to tuck my hands in hers as her mouth swore.
When my turn to say it so came I’d smile & keen serene blue
tears hard like I am now on this curb in Pasadena, CA because
I told another woman I love you all by itself is simply goodbye.
NW Hall likes to make poems a lot. Places that like NW’s poems for certain are: Indigest, spork, and Blackbox Manifold.