Jan/Feb 2018 Poetry |
Textile Photo Art by Jeffrey Trespel
Stuck at the Airport
I lean back in a chair,
Mozart playing in my airpods.Why shouldn't I be able to cope
without obsessingon the cancellations,
the long lines?Mozart, wandering
all day in search of jobswould amuse himself
by composing as he shuffledthrough the cold air.
Some days his compositionsin his head were as heady
as falling in love, tunes to singeven as his dear Constanze
struggled at homewith their accounting,
their debts piling uplike the snow drifts
outside their apartment.Weren't there only gaudy snuffboxes
from Europe's royaltybetween them and hunger?
Yet Wolfi coming through the doorwould be in a good mood,
confident another overturelike warm weather was approaching.
He would dismissher worries... Weren't
the pawn shops
open?
Doe
Our blue cadillac, big as a great shark,
sailed down the freeway, wavesof water leaping out of our way
like flying fish. We felt good,a Friday night with money
in our pockets,headed into the City.
Bill saw her first,her hooves bunched
together,leaning from the median's island,
as if she was about to jumpa creek. God, no...
We could see everything in slowmotion. The panicked leap
by the doe, our car brakingas if on ice,
and her floating ever so slowlytowards us—the loud whomp,
our hood popping,the air filling with smoke.
We scrambled out, the grillcaved in, but this beautiful
creature lying in a pile—gashed open.
On our steaming engine layher heart, somehow thrown
from her body at impact.I'm shaken, even years later,
by how quickly we took a life.At night, unable to sleep,
I still see her lying on the road,her head twisted up at us,
a glint of light fadingfrom her big
eye.