[lit-ideas] Re: Sunday Poem
- From: David Ritchie <ritchierd@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sun, 01 May 2005 10:07:52 -0700
A Ghost at the Retrospective's Opening
Every living person knows roads that offer glimpses, and then curve away,
and everyone knows how like such roads the views from booze can seem.
Inside at the opening, sipping an imaginary drink, the man with too many
views under his belt caught again, not a glimpse, but the usual wide vista
of hipsters, those late night knobs who dress in black and just "love" art.
They had wrestled to win parking spots near the gallery, grabbed glasses of
the Chardonnay, cawed in response to wit, nibbled, dribbled, preened, finger
waved to outsiders in the night rain. Now their mates listened, watched
their slippery lips open, imaginatively groped their busty wordies.
Bcked into a corner, the dead artist cast a rheumy eye, which skittered,
took all this in. Wanting thisness, the particularity, the individuality,
the binocularity of wider life, he dreamed--his other eye shut--randily of
rolling in his own hair-brushed clover, with mighty, not to say minty,
abandon.
David Ritchie
Portland, Oregon
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