A perfect, deep red rose
Grows into the yard
Through the slats
Of a neighbor’s
Privacy fence.
The solitary slide trombone
Muted with a bathroom plunger
Plays songs in three-quarter time
From the back of a mahogany bar
He watches her brush her hair;
Pensive lips turn to a smile,
A silk strap slips from her shoulder,
And a moth flutters behind the sconce.
Pungent stacks of ancient books
In a basement corner of the library.
The pedals of a church organ.
A pin-up in the choir loft.
By the shoe-shine stand in the hotel lobby
The tall strong quiet black man
In the whitest tunic ever tailored,
Starched and crackling with gold epaulets,
Calls the little boy sir and inquires about his day.
Blue sage and an open road
A cherry ‘66 GTO in dusky blue
For sale, in a yard of tall grass
Next to the avocado green
Refrigerator listing to one side.
Programming in Basic with punch cards;
Adhesive tape holding things together
At the bridge of his nose.
Climb teetering boulder fields;
Linger at the top
As storm clouds gather below.
Descend late through fragrant lodge-pole pine
Beaten by hail that fell not five minutes before.
The random snap of pine sap
Burning in the stone fireplace;
And outside the window
A wasp-trap, almost full.
Black felt hat, leather vest,
Frayed red paper spewing
Loudly from a toy revolver.
Roy, Hoppy, Kimosabe,
The mailman hands down the box
Real slow, no tricks.
Gary Witt
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/collage-4/
