Still needs some work, but about 7 poems later, I think this was the "de-rutting" one I was waiting for. It needs a week and a re-write or two, but here it is anyway.
Him
Let him have a mind like a maze,
shoulders like basketballs.
And when he walks,
toes start tapping.
Let him come reading
the backs of cereal boxes.
A junkie for the printed word
metaphorically shooting up
receipts, movie tickets,
nutrition labels.
Let him come
packaged like
1947.
Suspenders curving
over basketball shoulders
and spats for tapping-toe-walking.
Three whole pieces of
Easter-Sunday finest,
tie-pin of the Union Jack.
Let him come
with no instruction manual.
Clean-slate
un-shaven.
Loving God,
singing tenor,
hugging Mama.
And when he
reaches a door before
a woman,
let him hold
it open for her.
Taking the weight of it
and then turning to
find her
smiling there.
4 comments:
Ooh, me likey!
mmmmmmm....
Who is this dude? Does he have basketball shoulders or freakish shoulders as that bulge as large as basketballs over stick arms?
I'm curious about the ending. I wonder if the poem might be strengthened by just telling me what you think instead of just skirting around it.
I'm excited to see more work in this vein though. Just not with freak of nature shoulder people.
To be honest, this one needs a TON more work, and the whole basketball shoulders thing is probably the worst comparison I've ever made in my life. I think this poem was more about my joy that the words were coming easily again, even if the words suck. When I get in a rut, its not that my poetry sucks, because I can fix that. It's that nothing comes. So this is rubbish, but it came on its own. I skirted around the ending because I'm not sure what it's about yet.
Please keep reading and critiquing (spelling?) my work! I rely on that more than you know.
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