Call Me Guillaume

I listen to the jazz she left on days
Like this. She didn't like that west coast
Stuff. She found it rather vapid and
Complacent, like the people there,
Flying kites and having picnics.
She preferred the eastern jazz,
The sounds of blaring horns and
Being lost on rainy city streets,
The lunatics on subway steps,
In postwar Gallic black and white,
And, on this sort of dreary day,
When everything is black or white,
And rain blew straight into my
Face, and I am here in what was
Our apartment, looking at the
Streets, her jazz becomes the
Background music of the Gallic
Movie of my grimly solitary life.
It fills my ears with sounds, so
I don't sit the way I often do:
In silence, thinking, if I wait,
Her hand will knock the door.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 25 times
Written on 2012-05-01 at 01:15

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email (requires login)
dott Print text