kreisberg, you’re doing it wrong

some dude with a german name
loved new york in november so much
he composed a song about it. i say,
pshaw, cat, you have never slept
on the windowsill of warm louisiana
in his matted fur coat eaten through with holes,
singed at the bottom from rich cigars in the eighteen hundreds.

you have not taken tea with grand louis
in his mantle of mudbrowns and slick acid green,
all that indistinguishable scarlet and mottled yellow
leaking through leaves
scaring off the caterpillars and the cicadas
(no more music for a while, the earth sleeps)
you don’t know the ceaseless teetering
the rush of holding your breath between one dusk
and the next dawn, waiting to see if old louis
will grant brisk breezes or bestow balmy blustering
afternoon this time,
or the flush of his teasing as he hints of snow,
never fulfilling all his promises promises promises

hum your northern tune as you like;
i turn my face to the gray sky
and sing louisiana black-limbed night
broad-armed days of bitter cold and steamy breath
and that smell you can’t forget,
seeping into my southern bones.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s