DW: Vile Blueberries

I blew off my writer's group meeting tonight, which I think was tonight, but maybe wasn't because I didn't get any emails, and someone usually sends an email reminding everyone of the meeting. I'm bummed that I didn't make it to a yoga class on Saturday, and tonight I was cold and exhausted from writing new business proposals all day, and the thought of going home and making chicken cutlets was ever so more appealing. 

This morning I was working out listening to Patti Smith at 6:30 am, and I was inspired to write the following poem which I wanted to send to a friend who alas, is no longer a friend, but who would have enjoyed it none the less.

Abraxas NYC

Vile blueberries

sleep beside mustard covered glass

withering with despair over the detritus of lost dreams

splayed across splintered bridges with seams torn asunder by fear, accusation, projection

and the knowing that it is often too easy to be alone in a city

where polite vomit is a clue to ATM receipts

where taxis sail to Harlem--the last stop before Heaven

where you can't use your Metro card after dark.

All this she said, as she crumpled her dirty tissue

into her pocket but not before

wiping it clean with the Truth

of her own withholding.

***