Friday, June 19, 2009

Lunch poem: 6/19/09, 12:34ish-12:51pm

After Dorothea Lasky

Turnstile Charlie you are my best friend.

The rain hits the bus window.

You are who gets a call

When I need picked up, arms full of groceries

Taking on water. Charlie,

A certain type of field grass grows ripe

Upon hearing its name. You say the name sweetgrass

It neither responds nor snubs. Charlie, I have

The distinct belief you are the individual

Responsible for this non-growing

At the time of other grasses’ growing season.

You may stunt and find impartial its

Shoots. This is because of you, the attention

Paid to me at the time when I didn’t most need

It. I do not feel it necessary

To address your nickname.

At the sight of the large scythe

Just entering our field of vision,

I turned to you.

You were a granite curb, scraping me, a hubcab.

I need you to know you were callous

At that moment because you granted

No grass an escape.

At that moment

I was made into a self constantly inquiring

As to my whereabouts or the status

Of constricting boxes’ dimensions.

Where do my whereabouts lead? Have you

Followed them undetected?

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