sunday morning
crossing
the highland park bridge
3 a.m. i’m no george washington
i wonder if it’s really 3 a.m.
the witching hour
sunday morning like a velvet’s song
half-drunk i glide the machine
over empty concrete
a fresh dent in the driver’s side door
from who-knows-what
coltrane playing his blues
the world asleep
calvin asleep
steve asleep
colby is somewhere in maryland
with baby worries but still asleep
this city…asleep but still glowing pittsburgh pink
around the twists of the frozen allegheny river
killian asleep
portia asleep somewhere
where i can no longer reach her
dreaming her pot dealing fractions
amanda asleep
her phone number tucked into my flannel pocket
stealth behind calvin’s back
17 year old crooked smile finger over lips
ssssshhhhhhhhhh
before they tossed her blondeness from the karaoke bar
a problem for next week
the next holy saturday night
where we’ll sit in drunk bars
and calvin’ll claim he loves amanda
or claim he loves someone else
calvin loves the world
loves every fruitydrinksloshedwoman we see
like always he does
but i finger amanda’s phone number
tired, the true hero of my shit
just wanting to get across
the highland park bridge
and fall into my bed
dream blonde
damn, i know this isn’t the delaware river
really, it’s just another lonesome night.
this is truly an excellent piece of writing.
ReplyDeletevirtually the bones of a novel.