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Another Awkward Stage Of Convalescence Analysis

Author: Poetry of Bob Hicok Type: Poetry Views: 142

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Drunk, I kissed the moon

where it stretched on the floor.

I'd removed happiness from a green bottle,

both sipped and gulped

just as a river changes its mind,

mostly there was a flood in my mouthbecause I wanted to love the toaster

as soon as possible, and the toothbrush

with multi-level brissels

created by dental science, and the walls

holding pictures in front of their faces

to veil the boredom of livingfifty years without once

turning the other way. I wanted

the halo a cheap beaujolais paints

over everything like artists gave the holy

before perspective was invented,

and for a moment thought in the glowof fermented bliss that the bending

of spoons by the will was inevitable,

just as the dark-skinned would kiss

the light-skinned and those with money

and lakefront homes would open

their verandas and offer traysof cucumber sandwiches to the poor

scuttling along the fringes of their lawns

looking for holes in the concertina wire.

Of course I had to share this ocean

of acceptance and was soon on the phone

with a woman from Nogales whose hipshad gone steady with mine. I told her

I was over her by pretending I was just

a friend calling to say the Snow Drops

had nuzzled through dirt to shake

their bells in April wind. This

threw her off the scent of my anguishas did the cement mixer of my voice, as did

the long pause during which I memorized

her breathing and stared at my toes

like we were still together, reading

until out eyes slid from the page

and books fell off the bed to poundtheir applause as our tongues searched

each others' body. When she said

she had to go like a cop telling a bum

to move on, I began drinking downhill,

with speed that grew its own speed,

and fixed on this image with a flagellant'szeal, how she, returning to bed, cupped

her lover's crotch and whispered not

to worry, it was no one on the phone,

and proved again how forgotten I'd become

while I, bent over the cold confessional,

listened to the night's sole point of honesty.


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