By Anthony Caleshu
The first time I abandoned you was in the port town of D.
I was only one of a number of incidentals interested in
the woman in the blue pinafore with a black beret.
We were getting friendly when she confessed
her love of men was a love of reading about them:
on Wall Street, in organized crime, on whaling ships.
So I confessed my interest in her was only a passing one,
independently wealthy as I was
and without the ties to a livelihood that require so many
to turn to the study of classic American literature.
When the cops stormed the place, I was at the bottom of the bar,
arrested for ruining newly reupholstered furniture.
Instead of re-launching myself as a banker, a mob-boss, a ship's captain
cut away from the stake, the next morning
I began to repeat, over and over, my supposition
of tragedy: how revenge is bad for digestion,
how I knew I would die a dreadful death, how my love for you
was as unspeakable as self-pity ... a mumbling like the mumbling
I'm mumbling now, just out of ear-shot of anyone listening.
Swiped from inlovewithnight, who pretty much always posts poetry that rings my bells.
I have had a night -- nothing terrible, just lots and lots of little things that had to be dealt with while trying to watch Cold Mountain which I'd never seen before because I had a feeling it would be way too violent for me, and guess what, I was right (great acting, impressive directing, not a movie I ever want to see again, some distractions were welcome).
No complaints about my day (Russell Crowe had a worse day on his farm, according to his tweets); gorgeous weather, azaleas opening, laundry washed but not folded, Big Project mostly edited. Plus France legalized gay marriage and apaulled made bangers and mash for St. George's Day. Also, spy Colin Firth. And Riverside bluebells. More tomorrow!