And now for something completely different. I hope. This is probably my most recent poem, which, sadly, is three years old. Time to get back to writing, I think. I used to think that I could only write when I was feeling tortured, but then Paul Buchanan gave me a tip that opened my eyes forever. He said: "Find moments that resonate, and start with that." And THAT has made all the difference. It's a lot harder to write poetry when you're not just spewing emotion everywhere. So hopefully this poem does his teaching the tiniest bit of justice. I like it, because it brings back memories of growing up and summer nights. And the weather the past few days brought it to mind. So here you go.
Is This Heaven?
In your apartment at night
it's 15 degrees hotter than outside:
even with the door and windows open
the air barely moves
& you set a fan humming,
droning lazily in the hall.
Crickets outside sing the dew down
sing the heat up out of the asphalt
rising to your window.
It's shorts and barefoot summer,
iced tea at midnight summer,
too hot to think of moving.
The radio clicks softly as you turn it on
and static breaks the still
before you tune in the game
& Vin Scully's voice -
familiar as your heartbeat,
comforting as night -
the same as it's been forever:
"Piazza's at the plate with two men on base..."
You sink to the couch behind me,
touch my shoulder as I lean back,
& rest your cool glass against my arm.
With my eyes closed I can hear the crack of the bat,
can almost smell the fresh-cut grass...