You’re on the other
side
being abstract, acting
distant,
I have a stack of
thoughts in front of me,
unfinished; have poems to
write, poems I
should be writing; instead
I’m writing this; an
alarm goes off, it’s mine
Saturday morning, you’re
laying around somewhere,
Cootie Williams is blowing
Gator Tail; I shut the blinds
and the world outside
goes on and on and about
and out without me,
this poem is running, jazz is
dead, so are all those jazz
men playing, dead, but time doesn’t
make sense anyway; it’s
just going in circles, stealing
what it can,
which is everything,
we aren’t friends; I can’t see the
trees,
I’m hiding from the sun.
Tom Pescatore grew up outside Philadelphia dreaming of the endless road ahead, carrying the idea of the fabled West in his heart. His work has been published in literary magazines both nationally and internationally but he’d rather have them carved on the Walt Whitman bridge or on the sidewalks of Philadelphia’s old Skid Row.
