Reflections in April 17

Painting by Zoe Mozert 1950


Reflections in April 17


"Met you not with my true love," is the way
I would like to speak to those
Who have a saintly look,
The evidence of an aura,
Nimbus, or halo would assist,
As these rarities
Unboard the bus at the police-watched
bus station.
With its ghosts
Of shoeshine boys and real estate men
Wearing a white-dotted red band around
A Panama hat.

It is well known that those
with saintly proclivities
Never ride the rare trains
that carry human passengers
Any more. [I add
This comment for those who intrude
with interrogation.]
We had, my love that which was
somewhat quasi true
And I, a pilgrim without the New England
Puritan costume of black and white lace
tumbling down from the neck,
the black cowboy hat
Expect the top, not a dome, but flat,
or the affectations
Of the au courant dandy, body shirt,
faded blue jeans
Torn at each knee, and an equilateral
triangle tear where the buttocks was once
concealed in polite
Entourages, plus snakeskin boots
with the snakekin
Being simulated from plastic,

A radical singular type of love that led
inevitably to
Saying, "Thank you" several times
During the occurrence of the severance.

We once exchanged African folk tales,
Prepared soy bean and kale drinks,
Mimicked St. Francis taming the Wolf
at Guibbo,
Compared Cordelia with Orphelia,
Pretended we were Coyote man and Coyote woman,
Played we were
A shaman and a shawoman
Who a had penchant
For daydreaming we were riding camels.

My vigil today at the bus station was futile,
No one
Unboarded
The bus
Who had
A saintly look,
No one
To whom
I could say,
"Met you not with my true love."


Duane Locke

Posted over on Mad Hatter's Review