Again Ive come here
again and again Ive come here
and here
she is not
here again
she is not.
I am a booger ball.
I should be used to disappointment by now.
I have just eaten a almond butter and orange marmalade sandwich. There is almond butter on my fingers which is now upon my computer.
I wish people would stop asking me why Im single. It makes me feel broken.
Today I met an Angel today. In the, Secret Garden Cafe where my pirate love never showed. He was a beautiful black man. He came up to me while I was writing. He stood right next to me and I could feel his presence. I could feel his brown skin vibrating. I pretended not to see him or hear him when he said, Hi. because I thought for sure he was a beggar. But he wouldnt leave. I finally looked up at him to wonder why he was standing so close. To see why he was looking at me. But he wasnt. He was staring out the window. He was wearing a brown felt bowler and a brown overcoat of the same shade, the shade of burnt sienna or the bark of cedar. He was a young man dressed impeccably. He looked at me and said, There having grandpas funereal. He said as if we were brothers.
Who?
Grandpa died. he said
Oh. I said, quite confused. I wanted to touch him because he was so nice. I wanted to make sure he was real.
Im sorry. I said.
Grandpa. From the Munsters. He said. There having his funereal over there. he pointed to the Riverside Cathedral. Im getting his kids some coffee. Theyre very young.
Grandpa from the Munsters?
Yeah.
I wanted to ask him if they were friends. I wanted to know why he was telling me this as if he were my grandpa too but I was still tangled in the urge to hug this man. Or to have him hug me that the only thing I could say as he walked back to the counter was, Grandpa lived in Manhattan.
I dont know. He had a store though.
How old was he?
Ninety five? How old was Grandpa? That was when another voice came from around the corner from a stout white dude who looked like one of those truck drivers you see on movie sets.
Ninety five. He said.
Yeah. Ninety five. My black angel man, said and then he turned to pick up the coffee. As he was exiting he stopped before the door, turned back and looked at me. He said, Okay. I nodded. I couldnt tell if it was a statement or a question. Even after he left I could feel him. He walked across the street toward the Cathedral and disappeared behind the Holly shrubs. I wish I could remember our mutual childhood. I wish I could remember the times we played with Grandpa. Hiding behind his chair and pulling on his ears.
Also: the Burnside Review rejected my poems. I am eternally sad for the day in spite of my Angel.
four rejections in a row
again and again Ive come here
and here
she is not
here again
she is not.
I am a booger ball.
I should be used to disappointment by now.
I have just eaten a almond butter and orange marmalade sandwich. There is almond butter on my fingers which is now upon my computer.
I wish people would stop asking me why Im single. It makes me feel broken.
Today I met an Angel today. In the, Secret Garden Cafe where my pirate love never showed. He was a beautiful black man. He came up to me while I was writing. He stood right next to me and I could feel his presence. I could feel his brown skin vibrating. I pretended not to see him or hear him when he said, Hi. because I thought for sure he was a beggar. But he wouldnt leave. I finally looked up at him to wonder why he was standing so close. To see why he was looking at me. But he wasnt. He was staring out the window. He was wearing a brown felt bowler and a brown overcoat of the same shade, the shade of burnt sienna or the bark of cedar. He was a young man dressed impeccably. He looked at me and said, There having grandpas funereal. He said as if we were brothers.
Who?
Grandpa died. he said
Oh. I said, quite confused. I wanted to touch him because he was so nice. I wanted to make sure he was real.
Im sorry. I said.
Grandpa. From the Munsters. He said. There having his funereal over there. he pointed to the Riverside Cathedral. Im getting his kids some coffee. Theyre very young.
Grandpa from the Munsters?
Yeah.
I wanted to ask him if they were friends. I wanted to know why he was telling me this as if he were my grandpa too but I was still tangled in the urge to hug this man. Or to have him hug me that the only thing I could say as he walked back to the counter was, Grandpa lived in Manhattan.
I dont know. He had a store though.
How old was he?
Ninety five? How old was Grandpa? That was when another voice came from around the corner from a stout white dude who looked like one of those truck drivers you see on movie sets.
Ninety five. He said.
Yeah. Ninety five. My black angel man, said and then he turned to pick up the coffee. As he was exiting he stopped before the door, turned back and looked at me. He said, Okay. I nodded. I couldnt tell if it was a statement or a question. Even after he left I could feel him. He walked across the street toward the Cathedral and disappeared behind the Holly shrubs. I wish I could remember our mutual childhood. I wish I could remember the times we played with Grandpa. Hiding behind his chair and pulling on his ears.
Also: the Burnside Review rejected my poems. I am eternally sad for the day in spite of my Angel.
four rejections in a row
bettyann:
I am touched by the way that you write.
plaidhangover:
I really must agree with the above comment. That was written beautifully. I hope I see other pieces of work in the future!