What Follows
Vivian Eyre
There’s nothing in this city to remind you
No payloaders, Met games, homemade ragu.
Brilliant sun for the first time in months,
Blood pulses enough for a jog down Commonwealth
Ave. against traffic. Suddenly your breath catches
pollen fluffs kiting from your tonsils.
Coughing tightens the string.
Winded bleary, you collapse on the curb alone, except
for the man smoking the guinea-stinker,
your father used to say after he lit one up.
Heading toward your hotel, the river is full,
crew teams forcing blades against water.
You check. Yes, you are alone to pack, all alone, except
the Corona tracks your scent back through the Gardens,
LaGuardia, Carmine Street.
|
