The Poetry Marathon

The spider –
visiting from our noisy neighbors –
spindled along our
CDs and DVDs,
not discerning
if she lingered
over a Criterion
or my boyfriend’s copy of The Wolfman.

The sun
filtered through the blinds
and she scurried
behind Kieslowski
lest she
blanche
in the light
like Gloria Desmond
next to
a screen
on which her younger self
seduces her prey.

I see you, trios of service industry stars, you’re just waking up now,
and your females hiding in their Jackie-O glasses, and your males, oh, you –
look at you in someone’s grandpa’s sweater. and bespectacled and lean
as Tom Joad…you remember buying Grapes of Wrath from the quarterly(ies)
sale at Urban Outfitters, and even though you found Joad and
the Dust Bowl compelling and relevant, you look at how swarthy
the bums at the City Market are, and want to swat them with the free periodicals.

The line, “Now you lean quarterlies, and swarthy periodicals,” is the first in Frank O’Hara’s To the Film Industry in Crisis.

Except that stores are still open
and people still shop in them,
nothing looks
like the end of the line.

Aldi’s isn’t the Algonquin,
but it would prove –
to the alien beings waiting
their turn –
that
we were more
than consumers.

As the cashier
mechanically checks
out a dying race,
minutes
fold in
on themselves
and shrivel.

For days
I woke up with
the same song in my head

I thought it was
Todd Rundgren,
but wasn’t sure.

I searched the snatch of lyric
in Youtube
and was flummoxed
to see the song
was by America,
a band I
didn’t think
I could name a song by
if you tied me to
a stockade.

Now
the song
never
occurs to me.

Cities look like someone else’s party
when you’re older.
They look like your own party
When you’re young.

We didn’t have much money,
the downtown of my childhood,
the one my grandmother and sister
and I would visit by bus
every Saturday,
had become a ghost town.

So, we bussed from the Avenue
to the Plaza.
Everywhere we weren’t wanted
because of our age.

I have friends
who have joined
the resurgance of Historic Northeast.
I have others
who have moved away,
and one, in particular,
who wouldn’t recognize our
old haunts.

We have our own corners.

You were remembered today, my friend.
If every day by others, only because
they relied on you
or saw you more often.

I was guilty of
not remembering the day,
only knowing it’s coming up
too soon for others,
but I feel I can remember
other things
besides that last walk
from the city market.

I wish you were still here
I wish I had asked how you were feeling
I hope you met Baudelaire
If your landing
was of your design,
you did.

We were invited
to what was called
an “unusual meeting of the minds.”

The chatty hired driver caught our eye
in the rearview: letting us in
on a secret.
The conversation was one-sided.

His concern for our pleasure
not extending to getting out of the car,
we readied ourselves
for the rain the sky threatened
as we stood outside.

The driver doffed his hat in the rearview
and scudded the palm-lined blacktop.

We looked at each other
and then at the building.

Were we early?

Up and down the austere runway
were only more trees and
one family restaurant closed
hours ago.

Hopes for coffee dashed,
we walked the length
of the building, trying doors,
peering in windows, disappointed
how the darkening sky and
the unlit interior revealed
so little.

Were we brought to the right place?

Time passed and we considered
calling a cab, but neither of us
could find our phones.
This made me laugh; I was
the prepared one.

At length, the florescent sign
flickered, then turned off.
This sign of activity
hinted at a caretaker,
someone to answer our questions,
arrange another driver.

We began to talk
about the trip we’d had so far.
It looked like the seafaring portion
would never happen.

Then, your voice, out of
the pitch:
“A shame since we’re so close.”

Wet streets reflect lights
Car windshields change expression
You dodge urban moats

We don’t get around much anymore.
The Northland signs tell us
who’s had a bad shopping experience –
even after the lot around the corner’s
been mown and lot sale signs placed,
no one’s had the audacity
to remove the
Beware Gladrents
in its crooked, angry, thick red scrawl –
and those unopened eateries
beckon our delight
to finally yelp
our indignation
once our fine, elephant minds
pull our husbands out of the car lots
and grocery store lunchrooms
in time to change their Dockers and loafers
for shorts and sneakers.

We have it soft here
(even if our arms are sun-mottled).

The city looks so dangerous anymore.

Bleary-eyed, now listening to documentaries for audio stimulation,
after Rosanne became too annoying,
I lean back, dully realizing that only a few hours previous
I’d been dancing to the Pixies in my living room.

I stayed awake with Poetry; Poetry kept me awake while keeping me in a dream state,
through which I struggled, then revived, and cat-napped 20 minutes before The Who’s
“A Quick One While He’s Away” pulled me upright from the sofa.

Will I commit this sanctioned madness again? It’s likely.
But, for now, I want for nothing more than to not open the blinds,
pretend the sky is still dark and sleep soundly,
with Poetry waiting where I left her.