The windshield is frozen. We
start up the car and let the defroster take care
of the ice. The scraper sits in an unconcerned
manner by my feet on the passenger side floor,
making me feel like a suspect in
a murder case.
You are holding an empty water bottle
between your legs. I think of the
shower I took that morning, watching
myself, small beads of white, slip down the drain, being
forced by the water and shampoo, the soap and
the scum into the dark pit.
Okay, posting this poem is a little bit of a cheat, as it once could be found elsewhere on this blog under Story A chapter title Bedtime Poetry, but I feel it stands well enough on its own to add to the poetry section of the blog as well. And now that Story A has been removed from the site, it can be a small momento of when it was the driving point of this blog. For context, in the story the poem was written by a young woman, so it is from that perspective.
Drinking My Boyfriend
You were grinding coffee beans
on the kitchen counter beside the crisp apples rotting in the pie,
saying you would not drink it any other way.
You also said that you hated nine AM.
But you seemed to hate so many things;
wearing your hates like ribbons, medals on a brash soldier’s uniform.
Yet you love apples, and fresh ground coffee,
They were so scattered and few, your loves,
and I would take them,
secretly collecting them in a vase, a small bouquet of delicate flowers with
For my dear friend Kitty, who I would like to thank for inspiring this poem with her idea of a camp for wayward people. Thank you for being generous with that and in allowing me to use it. I even have the ponies and campfire in it!
Saints in Bondage (Kitty’s Garden)
Wayward they begin to
arrive at Kitty’s Garden. Standing on the veranda
I can see them.
Coming up the road, usually as solitary
and lonely creatures, but some in groups of two
or three, they
wander through the camp’s single gate, passing the
ponies weeping in
the shame filled meadows, to lounge
under the banana trees
with the daffodils in bloom.