This poem is taken from PN Review 258, Volume 47 Number 4, March - April 2021.
Poems
Blue
Miles Davis. Kind of Blue.
The sound of subways, sidewalks, New
York, in early springtime, dew
gleaming on the traffic queue-
ing over Brooklyn Bridge, the view
of morning filled with such a hue
of sadness it would trouble you
into playing the trumpet too.
Lost Weekends
I’ve had Lost Weekends.
Lost weekdays too. The fog
of alcohol descends,
the floor becomes a bog
and down I go, sans friends,
sans everything, glug, glug...
I’ve had dark sojourns
...
Miles Davis. Kind of Blue.
The sound of subways, sidewalks, New
York, in early springtime, dew
gleaming on the traffic queue-
ing over Brooklyn Bridge, the view
of morning filled with such a hue
of sadness it would trouble you
into playing the trumpet too.
Lost Weekends
I’ve had Lost Weekends.
Lost weekdays too. The fog
of alcohol descends,
the floor becomes a bog
and down I go, sans friends,
sans everything, glug, glug...
I’ve had dark sojourns
...
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