Too personally evocative, not to be scary. I have been in this bad neighborhood where I don't know where I am. It may seem real but I have also dreamed it, not knowing how to weave together the strands of the dream so they start to make sense. This kind of poem and the dream takes me back to the Bronx, seat of dreams, and nightmares. Where am I? What am I doing here? Who am I? Where are my parents?
As ever, crafted and sparing use of language.
Ken
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Ken Wolman http://awfulrowing.wordpress.com/
"All writers are hunters, and parents are the most available prey."
--Francine du Plessix Gray
On Aug 11, 2011, at 12:40 AM, sharon brogan wrote:
> 1.
>
> I am driving. It is not going well.
> The streets are dark and thickly
> treed. Sleet shines the asphalt.
> The windshield is clouded and
> cracked. Things go wrong.
>
> The car has a mind of its own.
> It will not go where I steer.
> The tires go flat. I cannot see
> where I ‘m going. It’s dangerous
> to drive, but there is nowhere
> to park.
>
>
>
> 2.
>
> I’ve returned to work after a long
> illness. Everything is changed.
> Rooms are not where they were.
> Desks: antique oak, grey industrial
> metal, are piled in the corridors.
> I want to speak with my boss,
> but he has no time for me. I ask
> and ask, but no one will answer:
> What is my job?
>
>
> 3.
>
> I’ve come back to a house where
> I used to live. Though all is different,
> it’s nonetheless familiar. The walls
> are made of many windows. Furniture
> and unpacked boxes crowd the rooms.
> I have a housemate. I know her well,
> but she does not know me. Where are
> my cats, my dogs?
>
>
> 4.
>
> The car finally stops. I think we are close,
> but it’s a long walk. Many city blocks.
> Though it’s night, the streets are brightly
> lit, and dense with pedestrians. Our
> destination is close, I am sure. But what
> is it? How will we know when we’re there?
>
>
> --
> sharon brogan
> http://www.sbpoet.com
> http://www.sbpoet.net
> http://smallpoems.sbpoet.net
> 406.578.1788
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