This poem is for you.
I wrote it while driving
through the toll booth
at lincoln tunnel.
I don't remember the
inspiration.
I don't remember the
crime.
It was something in
my mind.
Like a quarter caught
in a vending machine.
And if you paste
the cellophane at the
edges,
you might get an image.
A faint snapshot.
The one that I carry
with me
everyday.
And if you don't see
yourself
in this montage.
It's just poetic license.
Or maybe it's the crime.
But this poem is for
you.
This poem is for you.
You can hear laughter.
It might be from happiness.
Or maybe just hysteria.
Like in an ingmar bergman
movie.
The sounds fade in
and out.
Like doppler of a distant
storm.
I can't tell you the
cause.
But only the conclusion.
When this song ends,
maybe the parade will
be over.
And the beauty queen
will be you.
Anyway i wrote this
for you.
This poem is for you.
I thought of it
while you were on the
phone.
The syllables don't
match.
And the meter is out
of sync.
If it reminds you
of a japanese garden.
You may be right.
The circles start and
never end.
Wandering aimlessly
into corners.
And every two days.
The rain washes it
away.
And no history remains.
Except in the muscles
of the
monks and the straw
rakes.
It's a long explanation.
But this poem is for
you. |
