Saturday, January 17, 2009

Some Nights

Down on Franklin Avenue where the brothers jive,
night snuck up on everyone without anyone noticing.

A severed head stuck in a paper bag waited
secretly in some vacant lot: a bad fortune
stashed in a crusty fortune cookie shell.

I was waiting for the turkey sandwich
you made me eat to fall on top of my buzz
like an anvil on a coyote, and I was angry
as I’d been for minutes, but my anger
didn’t trail off into future minutes;
minutes are funny that way, and anger
is funny too.

The street will tire while we try
to walk home on this winter night;
my attrite heart will thump its sorry way
toward warmth, my apartment, and
tomorrow.

2 comments:

Jeffrey.Eaton said...

You stumped me with attrite. Perfect choice, though; almost every part of the poem uses that concept.

Donna K. said...

I love this.