Coffee Grounds for Eyes.
www.twitter.com/nickorsini ..this poem is a sad one. Follow me. Let’s talk.
She breathes into the phone, just a couple cracking notes
of an embattled melody and a defeated song. We used to
stay up, stoned, trying to dust, vacuum and mop…then we’d
staple up blankets and lock windows shut …sleep through
a Sunday, do our best to start our week without waking up.
Now she spits fire from a bottle.
Now she’s started to cough.
Now she will need tubes and clocks.
No one enjoys anyone that much.
I choose to remember us laying feet-to-faces in my den or
reading on the porch of the summer house we used to rent.
Our faces would be lit with soft black and white from the
documentaries that would play. Stories about musicians we’d
never know …leaving us lamenting our age and our days and
the funny way that time chooses people, but left us to float
on some endless, rippling wake.
One day I will bury her in the earth…
Going against all that she’d want.
One day my shirt will mop tears from
faces who enjoyed her only too much.
