It is winter
a street sweeper sweeps
leaves up from Main Street
I’m sitting with my notebook
writing a poem about the symbolism of phlegm
remnants of furtive strategies
the morning tries to wake me
the cars to support me
the cold ground to go around me
an idea passes by about a man
addicted to self-help–he reads two
to three books a day
paralyzed by memories
I stop to wipe my nose on my sleeve
*
It is winter
the Post sports a picture
of a boy juggling kiwis
before I enter the office
a dwarf steps out of the drugstore
someone suggested he came from the subconscious
I argued he was a messenger
I ask him if he tends bar
request his business card
*
It is winter
and fall
I’m not degenerating
actually, almost fully marinated
I flex out my fingers
squeeze into a fist
unhitch the gate
unscrew the top of a baby bottle
squeeze in some carcinogens
insert my bristle brush
twist and tug
with only a tinge of despair
by Alan Katz
Alan attended the Tupelo Press Writers Conference on Barter’s Island, Maine, where he studied with Jeffrey Levine. He writes at the Brooklyn Writers Space, a collective in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn.
