beside the public apple tree and the private pear,
to recite our poems for friends and gardeners.
Elders wander in and sit to listen for a while
then drift off like swallowtails to the honey-scented
buddleia. A woman in a straw sunhat harvests
plump tomatoes in a canvas shoulder bag. Magenta
hibiscus lolls by the gold of black-eyed susans; roses
blush pink as our poet-comedian coaxes laughs
about spam to shrink his mortgage, grow his johnson;
curious couples peer through green chainlink;
as August evening breezes blow, pigeons convene
on a roof, and a male jitterbugs for bored females.
The rain holds off; words trail into applause.
We poets retreat to a pub for Guinness and gin.
On the table, someone put a pink rose, a green apple.
Christopher T. George
This was a reading of poets who frequent Gazebo and Able Muse. Some photographs and other comments on the reading can be found by hitting the link through the title.
1 comment:
Hi Chris
I wondered if the poem reflected a real happening. I lived in Manhattan briefly in the Sixties when the Village was still alive. By my last visit there in the Eighties, it was going commercial, the fire going out. Thanks for offering this poem as a ressurection.
Pris
Post a Comment