and the bike lane takes me around the
belly of the city
business suits walk by
staring and moving
identical parts
then there is this man
playing trumpet
and only the lapping harbor gives
a hand.
bike wheels squeal, delighted around the turn
oh how the city shines
like a girl preening in the mirror.
from the gas stove
a sizzle
[move quick –
and stir the wok, flip the
frying tofu,
while the rice pot
boils]
the table is set and your hands
folded
compliment the
napkins bowed
carefully in half
gas flames flicker off,
settle down,
scents rich then fill
noses with a quiet
anticipation
girlhood crush, regressing,
he now seems
that one cool boy who sleeps
through philosophy
(the intro class)
with the teacher who
never turns around
unless that dream of falling
snaps the boy awake
with a crash
he seems now
a distant pair of eyes
compelling me
to learn a secret – lean in.
despite such a lyrical stance
he cares nothing for me
he cares only for a hurried
quickening breath
or the still life
of a sparrow who turns,
examining the ground
he does not care for my
pen hovering
or my sudden lack of trying
although he does suffer
(as we must)
finding words to create
this…
_____.
scattered and devasted
like how glass feels
after a break-in
shatters the street
it is –
the aftermath
that counts.
train station waiting on the last
late train
woman in beehive
and daisy dukes
while another in
impossibly tall shoes long eyelashes batting at
the pretty men
business travelers
wearing a path in the floor
how they tour
and turn
making deals with the air itself
and Amtrak personnel
create a new sign
yawns
and how the screeching never stops
yet it’s never right
and how the light
reflects
another group of models in beehive
so fitting before a trip
back to Baltimore
and how the light reflects.
begins when i slam
the door with “this is over”
again
and you cry and beat
your fists
takes a turn when
i slam vodka shots, drive
cross eyed
and wait out your
return
begins when you let
me back in
and we whisper gently
let’s lay quiet
awhile
Poetry by JC Snyder 