Читать книгу Red Rover Red Rover - Bob Hicok - Страница 13

Postcard

Looking at a bird.

Looking at the moon.

Looking at a bird looking at the moon.

Sharing a cigarette with the trees

outside my hotel room.

Waiting for Pegasus.

Standing in my socks.

Finding a yellow knife in my coat pocket

that doesn’t belong to me.

Stabbing a beer can.

Dropping the knife in the trash.

Wondering what kind of bird sings

for a man waiting for a horse that flies.

Wishing I’d taken more acid when I was young.

Imagining myself in armor in the pool

reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being

as children a thousand years from irony

competitively splash each other

for the prize of shouting I Am the King.

Never be the king,

I whisper from behind my faceplate.

Everything is happening at the same time.

You are here and I’m in your bedroom

looking at your slippers.

Why yellow? Why open-toe?

There are only surprises,

including how little I understand.

My head is on fire and I think

it’s because I have a woodstove

for a soul when the truth is

fire has to be somewhere,

I have to be somewhere,

everywhere has to be somewhere:

why not here?