reading Sylvia Plath (on a Friday night)

not quite midnight yet the page
hustles me to suddenly note –
the catch of desperation in my throat
outside Earl’s temptous winds a beggar
on their wayward trek to Maine
clacking round my lonely legs bare lain
with echoes of a lonely man
whom outside speaks maniacal tone
“where am i going?” i couldn’t know
and the north winds of a sweet
counter-clockwise spin round, a round
saying lonely child, silence is yet a sound.

when he played "The Pretender"

blue crabs stroll
along the night surface
of water that before
looked just like
chocolate silk and
there is this girl,
she sits alone hood
to block the wind and
behind her two women
call woooo wooos
to Jackson Browne while
a man smokes solo
next to a prudish streetlight
the yellow beer guys
carry their loads and
there is this man
he mumbles as he walks
to work his second shift
and the boaters honk
horns in approval
holding hands and rocking
while a vast sea
sings along decades past.

[jackson browne played pier 6 in baltimore tonight.
http://www.ilike.com/artist/Jackson+Browne/track/The+Pretender ]