c.rohrbacher

Father and Son


Dreamers Are Gluttons

 

Inheritance

 

Over  A Bowl Of Potato And Corn Soup, Mr. Marvin Tells Me How He Castrated Baby Goats

 

Love Poem #1


Leather Death Fruit and Flying -- A Consideration


The Mechanic Takes on Language


135th & Crossing


It Could've Been


Kermit's Jazz


The Muse


Herman


Immortality


In Time


Bottomed Out Language


Such Fears


Spreading Out Histories


Days Unfold


There is a Flutter of Noise in My Head






 

135th & Crossing

 

 Her hands are like closed horseshoes. 

        They swing over her clocking hips,

               as if that is what makes her go.

   She does not slow for conversation.

           

                                    At the corner she brushes against roses

being sold.                    She throws a smile

over her shoulder, like table salt--

 

      or something not of luck at all.

 

The roses fall onto the street.

 

                        No symbolism.  No metaphor.

 

     Just red flowers in the gutter.

                 And a man stooping down

 

collecting his life.

 


Originally published in Spout

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