Читать книгу Asbestos Heights - David McGimpsey - Страница 13

Tulips

Corduroy once ruled the kingdom of pants.

I was still writing poetry back then.

Or, whatever it was I did back then

that made people say, ‘That’s not poetry!’

The tulips my father planted back home

bloomed steady most Easter-times, sure as

the plans I sketched out to start feeling good

got crumpled alongside a map to Rome.

Casting ‘foul light upon neighbouring ponds’

was not my cup of Sprite, but I enjoyed

choking with anxiety whenever

the seasons made a definitive change.

Fall was all university khakis

and old Nantuckets braying, ‘Hey, Corduroy!

Your footgame burger garbage is garbage!’

until it was finally footgame season.