By Torrence R. O’Haire
It was a Tuesday (I think)
When poetry died.
The lady in the tweed coat walked quickly by
And her husband sniffed a “Sorry, no…”
And so it was left sitting
Slouched against the
Dirty brick building
With just a paper cup
And a sign:
WILL ANALOGIZE FOR FOOD
But it tossed its last empty bourbon bottle behind it
And heard it pop in the alleyway.
The red wheelbarrow rusted, and
Its real owner took it to the hardware store for a new left handle. Now it
carries flats of
his wife’s petunias. Only petunias, no metaphors. Annabel’s seaside is now
prime real
estate, though I think they may have slapped a plaque on a post in a park
somewhere
around there. The two roads are paved; the one less-traveled is now a toll
way heading
toward Ohio and the other leads to the local Wal-Mart, where Pablo is a
greeter and
Longfellow is “employee of the month” (though I hear he only got it because
his manager
drank too much one night and told him things she shouldn’t have about her
marriage, and
now feels awkward). It was a Tuesday, or so (you always remembered better
than I).
But, for Tuesday’s sake, I suppose everything is fine. Cars still run, locks still
change,
new keys are cut, and there are new sheets on the bed – not to mention the
bakery on the
corner still makes those hazelnut things that we really like (although I find now
that I
lack the best words to describe them).
I stop there after work one rainy Wednesday evening, and pick up a
half-dozen, and a
loaf of bread. At home I chop onions and sage, boil pasta, and open wine –
just a cheap
Italian red, nothing special. I set out the rust-colored dishes, and the two forks
that don’t
match
A pair of wine glasses (that also don’t match)
And keep dinner warm for the next few minutes that I know you’re taking
To walk up the wet, ash-colored front steps of our building.
Tomorrow I have to run to the Wal-Mart
on my way home from work
(I make a note of this)
But for now I’ll just wait for you.
And just before I hear your new key turn in the old lock,
I realize
That I’ve (accidentally) written a poem.
*Author’s bio: Torrence R. O’Haire is a Grand Rapids, Michigan, local. A successful playwright, he studied linguistics at Grand Valley State University and currently resides in West Michigan, where he teaches theatre and dance.
