Читать книгу This Place of Prose and Poetry - Lucian Krukowski - Страница 7

I went walking down the street one day.

T’was not the merry month of May.

It was rather on a rainy morning in October

when, last I looked, I found myself to be

deeply underneath the weather.

The rain came down; the news was bad.

My girlfriend, just turned sixty, had reverted,

rightly so, to her younger dear old dad.

My future had never been so poorly laid.

On reflecting, I could only see a crooked path.

The facts are clear—nothing could be clearer

than that I am alive—although barely, as she said.

But “barely” takes the prize for being better

in every way (I say) than being “not-alive.”

My building will eventually crumble. Weary

It has been of late—and largely empty, too.

But now the rubble shows a face—much like

Papa Fraga’s “Miss O’Murphy” smirking at me

from her couch. I should-a, would-a, jumped her then,

before she could exhale and denigrate my little lust

by laughing with her big and raucous mouth.

But I was proud—yes, proud enough to just

stand still and watch her divine—behind contract —

as the smoke of lust came out in puffs and gusts.

Penelope then showed up—she was tall and bony —

but surely very smart. We left shortly, P and I,

to find a sunrise of the kind that would enhance

our chance to prematurely find that pot of gold

which usually waits for darkness to appear.

But it’s now dark enough—she said.

Sunrise is too late for us to wait.

I know. But I’ll be dead by light of day,

and you will have just passed sixty-eight —

still young enough to do your own cavorting.

I said to her—I need a different now.

I need a woman who will zip me up.

I could use a bitch to knock me down —

not merely nibble at my toes—one that runs

upstairs, will do the dishes and wash the clothes.

Then, on command, she’ll fetch the Holy Grail

from which we’ll drink our fill until such time

when full and weeping,

I set sail to find a whiter whale.

I cannot wait for the crease to cross her dimples,

or hair to sprout from-out my inner ear, or feet

that wander and don’t come back on call.

Did you call just now?

I thought I heard a bell.

No—not the one that tolls.

Write—please do—when

you again are well.