Coffee Stain
On the roads, I pass by them and they glance,
look me over, and I don't have a chance
to hide that muddy cloud, that bleary mark
of silt-in-the-cup or pinch-in-the-dark.
And I remember, the early garden
had morning bloomers with eyes that harden
and think they know what darkness passed at night,
embraced the moon and poured over starlight
so rich of hue, the ambrosia brown.
I just keep on walking and looking down.
All the eyes blooming and staring dully,
all apple-throated, unknowing fully
why sleep has waited on trembling eyelids--
all those fresh faces, old men and school kids.
The air is scented, my flesh is earth-soot,
heavily swinging, foot after foot.
Stretching and yawning, brushing off the ache,
my body's wilting but I'm still awake.
Cruel is the night
Cruel is the night and cold
yearning something warm to hold
city is water, you are stone
all seems bigger when alone.
Leaning against the lampposts, tired
lights in every street are fired
but you are left to waste away
your eyes still dull, your hair still grey.
Soft collapse of memory
halted by a reverie
brutal thought that reminds you
what you owe, how much is due.
The chunk of pestilence I stole
from your plate to keep you whole
is lying silently in wait
on some remorseless poet's plate.
You say you're lonely, puppet dear.
How can that be when I'm so near,
striking out quietly for bed
with all these voices in my head?
Note: Been a while, but I'd be much obliged for comments. The syntax in the second poem is meant to be the way it is. I realise that these two seem very derivative in terms of their structuring and the way they sound when recited, but I have tried when it comes to meaning and effect.
