ihrocks
11-28-2003, 01:43 AM
First, I know I'm really bad at this particular type of prose-poem, but I thought I'd toss it out here and see if anyone had suggestions for shaping it up:
I’m sitting in a coffee bar reading the New York Times on a Monday morning. A bag lady walks in
talking crazy. Talking about kindness. Talking about Truth. The room becomes the empty backs of people with better things to do. Just stopped in for a cup o’ Joe.
“I went to London once. I saw love drowning in the River Thames,” says the old woman with far away eyes. Stooped and scarred old woman. Thread-bare sweater. Eyes wet with a thousand unshed tears.
From a crinkled paper bag she pulls a note. “It’s true” she mumbles and she offers them the Truth, creased and yellowed with age. “No one knows the Truth.” Who has time?
I turn to the crossword. “I have never seen a cross word.” She sighs and trembles. No one sees or hears.
Glancing at their watches, they have places to be, appointments to keep. They file past the old woman
who once saw love drowned in the River Thames. Far away eyes as blue as her thread-bare sweater.
“Be kind to me. I once knew love.” She carries that burdensome weight on her ancient shoulders,
as I read the New York Times in a coffee bar on a Monday.
ihrocks
I’m sitting in a coffee bar reading the New York Times on a Monday morning. A bag lady walks in
talking crazy. Talking about kindness. Talking about Truth. The room becomes the empty backs of people with better things to do. Just stopped in for a cup o’ Joe.
“I went to London once. I saw love drowning in the River Thames,” says the old woman with far away eyes. Stooped and scarred old woman. Thread-bare sweater. Eyes wet with a thousand unshed tears.
From a crinkled paper bag she pulls a note. “It’s true” she mumbles and she offers them the Truth, creased and yellowed with age. “No one knows the Truth.” Who has time?
I turn to the crossword. “I have never seen a cross word.” She sighs and trembles. No one sees or hears.
Glancing at their watches, they have places to be, appointments to keep. They file past the old woman
who once saw love drowned in the River Thames. Far away eyes as blue as her thread-bare sweater.
“Be kind to me. I once knew love.” She carries that burdensome weight on her ancient shoulders,
as I read the New York Times in a coffee bar on a Monday.
ihrocks