aayoungIt’s ordinary…
mundane, absolutely nothing special.
Part of a set that was purchased in the late 80’s
or early nineties would be my guess.
This brown, plastic 1/8 cup scoop
that came to symbolize our every morning
spent sharing coffee
no matter if we were 12 inches
or 1,200 miles apart. We always had coffee.
It is special because he sent it to me
in a care package when I was aching for him.
I still ache for him,
so it’s my coffee scoop until my dying day.
10 pm
fresh out of sin
headed for a sip
in a bergamot tearoom
I became distracted
my January boots
compelled
to follow memories
through puddles of patchouli oil
stalls peddling shiny baubles
half finished dissertations
and bohemian postulation
stopping abruptly
at Biagio’s Bistro
fine Italian cuisine
featuring a gourmet dessert cart
a self service bar for the regulars
despite having
no customers &
a candlelit patina
covering
a thousand nights
spent ruining tablecloths
lovingly destroying
illusions
your every word brilliant
eyes alight
that saccharine fucking
Andrea Bocelli CD playing
on maddening repeat
my laughter too loud
for the intimate room
we were certainly doomed
our conversations
were always the wildest sex
i smiled remembering
into the fezziwig glow
of the old window
warmed by the fact
they still haven’t dusted
when
my ears perked alive
as suddenly crept
haunted sounds of
a minstrel show
a hand
strumming a guitar
your voice
in half notes
amidst sodium lamp motes
drawing me toward
that ancient apartment building
where you
serenaded me
I began to
swiftly seek
certain
I would find you
if only the source of the sound
was located
before the melody ended
rounding the corner
I found myself all alone
with weary dumpsters & brownstones
breathing clouds of longing
hair damp
with the scent
of dead pine wreaths
& recollection
because
truth be told
i miss my friend
so true without you
there will never again be
music for me
on the perpetually wet streets
of Clifton
it’s frustrating
when you’re trying
to teach your offspring
to fly off
from the nest
when
they are pigeons
the size of bowling balls
with no desire
to put aerodynamics
to the test
in the 1990’s
your flannel shirt
was a cultural ticket
that took you
greasy haired
through a graffiti pocked
bathroom stall door
to a grunge wünderland
where herpes came standard
with every tribal tattoo
nirvana whining
about your libido
a mosquito
&
girlfriends untrue
your dreams will be
dry humped
in a Geo Metro,
Generation X,
your so-called life…
high school interrupted
…eating Pearl Jam until
Zima vomit came to the house party too
with green apple jollyranchers
attended by
your skankiest girlfriend
who smoked Marlboro Reds
with the acumen
of a triple divorcee
her eyelids
the trashiest
ice blue
when the oxycodone and meth crops fail in kentucky
the country folk flock
across the ohio river into cincinnati
to go to the open air opioid market
people once came to the queen city from the south
to get factory jobs that no longer exist
they were called briar hoppers
we don’t have a name for these new immigrants
other than marginalized, homeless, inmate, and DOA’s
but they’re good at making change
a five dollar bill on the streets of this town
will turn into a baggy of heroin
faster than it will turn
to singles
driving to work
sleepy eyes searching for signs
of life
rounding mount adams
on columbia parkway
asphalt nile
church of the immaculata watching over
queen’s tiara skyline
the city unfurls
buildings rising
to meet the sunlight
morning glory blossoms
in cincinnati
i put on some water for tea
then decided to mop the floors
of our new little nest
before the furniture gets carried in
before the rest of our lives happen
Murphy’s Oil Soap
water and sunshine into a bucket
carried through the echoing emptiness
of what will be
over original hardwood
placed there in 1941
i love to clean
the ritual of it
i write in my thoughts as i work
images painting themselves
into spaces around my gentle humming
spreading wet across the grain
seeing hands that mopped this floor
before me
wives husbands
fathers mothers
lovers and
put-upon teenagers
oh this house
has a history
built the year
the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor
it’s all still there
nailed down memories
layers of time entombed in wax
someone stood in that living room and heard
we dropped the bomb
we landed at Normandy
of a flag raised in Iwo-Jima
Kennedy was dead
Vietnam was a lost cause only good
for folded flags being handed to weeping mothers
Nixon was a crook
Reagan and John Lennon had been shot
the Berlin wall had fallen
i heard first steps
crying babies
crying widows
joyous laughter
say cheese
wine glasses clinking together
realizing with a smile
this floor is mine
the foundation of a family
and i will love it
then
the teapot
began to whistle
there was little indication
i was not a part of the sunlit green
moss covered bridge
afternoon
summer creeping
along the gorge
me
perfectly still
save the rise and fall
of grateful lungs
taking deep lustful breaths
of rushing creek below
my eyes set upon the soaring
white sycamore trees
where the indigenous people
of this carved miami valley
sought refuge
after glaciers melted
musing that
200 million years
isn’t so long
in the grand scheme
when my sacred peace was disturbed
by the sounds of new things
tremors caused by seven year old feet
across creaking boards
three little boys
too varied in appearance to be brothers
accompanied by an aloof
iPhone addicted mother
walking along oblivious behind them
i turned my head slowly
to observe the play
and
wait for the poem to come
the tallest of the prepubescent trio
crouched down
scooping up a daddy long legs spider
off the trail
before running onto the bridge
he set to taunting the other two boys
with the harmless creature
then dangled it toward his still absent
phone call mother
on whom
the gesture barely registered
a turn of her head
darkness came into his eyes
his gapped teeth gave way to a wicked laugh
as he cast the spider to its end
over the side of the bridge
the other two boys were distraught
over his brutality toward the arachnid
the youngest of them looked around
for an adult to whom he could run
for solace
for sense in the matter
choosing me and my quiet
over his uninvolved chaperone
he ran desperately toward my calm
to ask
if what his companion
had so cruelly
done to the spider
had killed it
could the spider survive
that fall?
he pleaded to me
hurriedly pointing to the water
tears streaming down his face
as if i were
the one
who made such choices
in that moment
i felt the age of my bones
older than pious pebbles
praying silently
in the stream
beneath us
i knelt down
so that i could look directly into his eyes
and said
no, son
i’m sorry
it’s likely
the spider did not survive the fall
but this moment
has more to teach us
about the nature of humans
than the nature of the spider
doesn’t it?
his brown eyes grew amber and wide
with new understanding
as he turned to look at his friend
the spider slayer
triumphant
in a low voice
uttering
…yes, m’am
…it does
oh god
how i wish i had taken typing in high school
but the word processing and typing classes
were for the pregnant girls whose medusa fried hair
smelled like rave hairspray and marlboro reds
but no
i was too busy accumulating more important credits to graduate early
from glen este high school
and to this day i still don’t give a damn
who glen este was
i had to get away
from the bullying
more bullying
and did i mention bullying
the place was a varsity lettered lord of the flies reenactment
and nobody had the conch
the history teaching goomba soccer coach
with the 40 weight greasy slicked back hair
who was screwing the whole team
promising them scholarships to the coveted xavier university
the choir director who only gave the solos to his pets
and my mother who had decided to start having church services
in the living room
yeah i backed a moving truck up to the house at age 16
better that than climbing a clock tower armed
so here i am
20 years later
the queen of hunt and peck
i’m serious
i have the shit down to a fine art
my pointed index fingers flying
cigar clenched in my teeth
spectacles resting just above the tip of my nose
the only thing i’m missing is a fedora
with a little press card tucked into the brim
it’s really okay
my crappy typing will stand for all time
an emblem
of my daring escape
The Queen City
