To Listen to Music While Reading this Poem, just Click Here!
Click Here To add this poem to your "Voting Possibilities" list!
Every Other Night, At The Paradise Cafe Every other night, At the Paradise Cafe She would come around Selling her flowers. Without saying a word She would extend a rose In your direction, And there were those Who took the flower But refused to pay, And she would simply walk away And offer another bloom To whomever would catch her eye. So, it seemed only natural that I Would make up a life for her. I simply could not let The small, non-dissolved pieces Slip trough the mesh And embrace only the fragments. She had to come from, And return to…somewhere. The flowers didn’t just magically appear. She wasn’t just a paragraph Or a phrase On the occasional page Of the reams of days That play themselves out In this little corner bar. She was a novel unto herself. But why must I write it? Why can’t I let her Pedestrian through my life Like so many other people On any other San Francisco night? Sidney’s brother, that goddamned drunkard, said he had seen her hanging with ‘Joe The Toe’. “She’s a fuckin’ whore man”, he explodes in six perfect shots, while laughing, then reloads and fires, “She’s a junkie whore man!” And then he leans back, So self-self satisfied, In his chair And awaits my reaction. I must have let it slip In some fraction Of a conversation Or given it away With one of those looks. Either way, The truth is, I would await her arrival Every other night At her appointed hour. But I was a drunk Much too shy To so much as even buy A single flower. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Moira Grace Hamel-Smith On Date: 2005-08-07 00:27:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 1.00000
There's a stillness,a distance between the subject and the author,that seems to close in as herself is revealed.She does not interact,she is apart.That is what compells you to"make up a life for her." She clearly does not belong to this world.Re "But why must I write it?" Like you have a choice!
“She’s a fuckin’ whore man” Sometimes I wish I was a guy,the urge to punch the hater pig,was palpable.
“She’s a junkie whore man!”
And then he leans back,
So self-self satisfied,
In his chair
She seems even more delicate more pure in this light.
And he knows a lot of junkie whores?
You silly love sick boy,next time some asshole doesnot pay go over to her say I'll get that,a gentleman is never rejected.
I love love love this.The range of emotions it evoked,the gentle cadence so sweet and shy.
No wonder she holds herself apart.Soft in sound but very sharp images.I always SEE your poems so clearly.
Romance defined. Moira