[lit-ideas] Sunday poems
- From: Robert Paul <rpaul@xxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 02 Dec 2007 15:41:59 -0800
96th street station
don't buy the new york times she said
the ink comes off on everything. go wash
your hands and throw it in the trash. i gave it to
a man who held out already greasy hands holding up
a can seeded with dollar bills. (them who has gets)
dimes don't rattle in his cushioned cup. he threw
the times back at me. it aint the news i'm after,
mr. generous, but try me with the post.
we blew on down the street old news and i.
the hummingbird in winter
He makes the sound of small instrument
polishing soft stone a grinding perseverance
outside the balcony window where the squirrels
have scattered the birdseed and the chickadees
swing on trapeze bars under the empty tray. i did
not know they stayed in winter, losing color,
graying with
the sky.
i thought they went south, hibernated,
slept under leaves and pine needles.
brrrrrrp. brrrrrrp. we mix red
nectar fill the feeding tube and
watch his iridescent body swell
drunkenly as a courtier at a feast.
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