I have no idea where the first two lines came from.
Our names shouted in Russian,
our names spoken in Gaelic:
the twin choirs,
wind and rain
exchange harmony over
the newspapers sheltering our heads.
We steal glances down the block
and scuttle for a cab.
We are drunk.
We are drunk and hoping for a ride.
We are drunk and singing Journey as loud as rain.
Running for the cab,
we are laughing, and steam
from the tailpipe warms faces.
or else we ignored the scatter of days over months,
and here we stand,
the yellow door propped
among each raindrop,
(There are so many raindrops I could swim.)
soaks up and scatters with our bodies:
Each one a plan from God, and we ruin it.
Drops delivered to the backseats of cabs,
delivered to my hair and pillow,
your head on my pillow.
3 comments:
I think its long overdue that somebody wrote a poem about the 3B and its unfortunate demise.
I definately agree with slim! I had a very nostalgic feeling with the Journey reference. Man, good times, good times.
This one nearly brought me to tears of nostolgia. I used to love warming myself by the tailpipe; I thought I was the only one.
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