Bandwagon jumping again (once more, with culture)

Only one person voted for Ninja over Pirate or Cookie Monster in my pointless poll yesterday? My flist has no honor. (Kidding, kidding, I voted for Pirate too.)


Anyway, I've been meaning to post a poem or three for National Poetry Month, so why not start now while I'm hiding from my work? LJ is being a jerk about my cut-tag, though, so I'm not going to bother. Sorry 'bout that.


Love in Brooklyn
by John Wakeman

"I love you, Horowitz," he said, and blew his nose.
She splashed her drink. "The hell you say," she said.
Then, thinking hard, she lit a cigarette:
"Not love. You don't love me. You like my legs,
and how I make your letters nice and all.
You drunk your drink too fast. You don't love me."

"You wanna bet?" he asked. "You wanna bet?
I loved you from the day they moved you up
from Payroll, last July. I watched you, right?
You sat there on that typing chair you have
and swung round like a kid. It made me shake.
Like once, in World War II, I saw a tank
slide through some trees at dawn like it was god.
That's how you make me feel. I don't know why."

She turned towards him, then sat back and grinned,
and on the bar stool swung a full circle round.
"You think I'm like a tank, you mean?" she asked.
"Some fellers tell me nicer things than that."
But then she saw his face and touched his arm
and softly said "I'm only kidding you."

He ordered drinks, the same again, and paid.
A fat man, wordless, staring at the floor.
She took his hand in hers and pressed it hard.
And his plump fingers trembled in her lap.