tanka string
unpainted
window shutters
and inside
my moman's dresses
all dulled by the darkness
another
afternoon shift
today
taking all my time
just to remain sane
cute man
dressed in a blue hoodie—
this is my life
consisting of lust and
a sense of discontentment
what is it
about a man...
pondering
that line of questioning
a child's red lollipop
a couple
seated in the lobby—
passing trucks
here and there this Monday
i wish i could be on vacation
and
for a moment
writing of
whatever will come
a tanka takes shape
staggering lines
in my tanka diary
how long
since i've heard from the man
who mentored me in poetry
meeting
another conceited man...
over a cheap beer
listening to him talk
of nothing but himself
today
ain't a 'senryu' day...
whatever i see
hear or experience i thrown
into the skin of a tanka
watching someone's child
biting a doughnut...
all the things
i wish i were able to do
regardless of what anyone'd think
blackness
of mold in the walls
old man
spit shinin' his shoes
on the afternoon porch
the old folks
talkin' of the tent revival
in the kitchen
with *Tant Blé baking another
sweet potato cobbler
*Aunt Blue in Kouri-Vini
raised in the hood...
aint no shame
or codeswitchin'
ive grown comfortable
with all that i am
gnawing on chicken
this late afternoon
rain in the forecast
i have a sudden idea
to run into it barefoot
sweet potatoes
in a very thick syrup
simmering...
that last phone call from billcollector
left *mémèr a bit frazzled
*grandmother in Kouri-Vini
from the front desk
watching each guest
grab a cookie...
this Monday is somewhat
peaceful and tame
checking folk in...
randomly i think about
the life of
Maestro Leonard Bernstein—
wanting to listen to Mahler
at odds
with parts of myself...
i've been told.
' extend grace to yourself
and be patient with you.'
a guest
kindly puts a 'drink'
in my hands...
rushing to the back to let myself
fall into the arms of tipsy
biting my tongue
to make a smartass retort
coolness
of this late afternoon
stacked up at the backdoor
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