1959

I feel as though it is 1959 -

the still of black-and-white &

the scratch of my sartorial-splendor suit:

charcoal Stetson;

smoking a cigarette with Robert Lowell,

Rod Sterling narrating my thoughts.

These quiet days of superstition and privilege

comfort and unsettle my 2018 sensibilities.

Bourbon should be displayed in my living room:

crystal glasses surrounding a crystal carafe.

That's about all that should remain from 

this dusty era; this post-WWII movement of time

TOCK....TOCK....TOCK....TOCK

or maybe I'm reaching for the Yorkshire Dales

in the 40's, sitting by the warm hearth

watching the dancing flames with James Herriot.

Soon, it will be time to nap. Perhaps shower and nap. Maybe shower, shave and nap. Or just to sleep. Either way.  I want to draw my best-fit line through all of the interpretations of this Fall day.

Sonnet

This sonnet sucks because it is hard to rhyme.
I have no idea if it's worth it
to use my ink-brain in effort and time
when there is reason to think it is shit.

This sonnet sucks; silence does surround me
the soundless, dew-wet cold pulls me toward
a million night-stars -- shakes my burdens free
how I reexamine: my faith restored.

This sonnet may suck and sitting untouched
grow mold and dust as the sun sets tonight.
Poetry readings allow unclenched
amateur writers to open up tight --

fisted, balled-up poems trying to read
sonnets and verses planted from a seed.