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Poems of WWIII
I. Old Litvak runs from the vacuum cleaner just like the cats do, but since they are much leaner and quite a bit meaner than he, cats imagine themselves sucked and filtered while he merely protects his shins. II. The scene out the window is all right if you like sticky white snow on branches and sidewalk; Litvak can imagine a plow -- but would dispense with snow this year and street and machine without a tear. It's not new to despise the climate but this is not about style in December, this is life, the real thing. III. Since the girl in the basement apartment won't walk her animal, instead she collects dogshit day and night, releases the stench between nine and eleven PM, hence the lighting of scented candles by Litvak, vicar of the Cathedral of St. Fido. Litvak's Prayer In April he complained about the squirrels, the screech of starlings; he didn't like the morning blue, the density of the air. Now snow has fallen. The poison pearls he scribbles indict night silence, the cold draft about his chair. An ungrateful old man unfurls his blanket like a flag, he hunkers down for seasonal debate: morning curses, morning prayer. |
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Chuck
Levenstein: bio email: chuck_lev@comcast.net Poems of WWIII archives |
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