Corner: Ralph Pomeroy

                             (photo from series entitled, "Brooklyn Gang", by Bruce Davidson)

Corner

by Ralph Pomeroy

The cop slumps alertly at his motorcycle,
supported by one leg like a leather stork.
His glance accuses me of loitering.
I can see his eyes moving like a fish
in the green depths of his green goggles.

His ease is fake. I can tell.
My ease is fake. And he can tell.
The fingers armoured by his gloves
Splay and clench, itching to change something.
As if he were my enemy or my death,
I just stand there watching.

I spit out my gum which has gone stale.
I knock out my new cigarette --
Which is my bravery.
It is all imperceptible:
The way I shift my weight,
The way he creaks in the saddle.

The traffic is specific though constant.
The sun surrounds me, divides the street between us.
His crash helmet is whiter in the shade.
It is like a bullring as they say it is just before the fighting.
I cannot back down. I am there.

Everything holds me back.
I am in danger of disappearing into the sunny dust,
My levis bake and my T-shirt sweats.

My cigarette makes my eyes burn.
But I don't dare drop it.

Who made him my enemy?
Prince of coolness. King of fear.
Why do I lean here waiting?
Why does he lounge there watching?

I am becoming sunlight.
My hair is on fire. My boots run like tar.
I am hung-up by the bright air.

Something breaks through all of a sudden.
And he blasts off, quick as a craver,
Snug in his power; watching me watch.

Poetry Of Departures

by Philip Larkin

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,

As epitaph:

He chucked up everything

And just cleared off,

And always the voice will sound

Certain you approve

This audacious, purifying,

Elemental move.

And they are right, I think.

We all hate home

And having to be there:

I detest my room,

It's specially-chosen junk,

The good books, the good bed,

And my life, in perfect order:

So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd

Leaves me flushed and stirred,

Like Then she undid her dress

Or Take that you bastard;

Surely I can, if he did?

And that helps me to stay

Sober and industrious.

But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,

Crouch in the fo'c'sle

Stubbly with goodness, if

It weren't so artificial,

Such a deliberate step backwards

To create an object:

Books; china; a life

Reprehensibly perfect.

Rocks

Beg my eyes to look away from
all the energy that beckons me,
By day, the skin bright,
sparkles, resiliency
and later by night,
swollen lips, the eroticism,
sick and fancy.
I am perpendicular to all temptation.

The fear of stolen glances
must be met with strict,
learned aversion,
purposive tactics, shame.
And through the streets, in the crowds,
or as a solitary member
of unbeknownst potential partnerships,
muted duologues,
hot games,
the withdrawal steadies, it heaves,
and multiplies.

A blue sky,
cloudless, cool and swallowing,
born without edges,
worn without creasing,
shines too brightly for these my eyes,
so I avert my attention to stare at the familiar
ground, its dirt, its stones, innocuous,
admired close-up
and instantly inspected,
known without fear.

These rocks, unique and alternative
to each and every other rock;
their blindness that binds me.
Never expressive but only experiencing my affection
silent still, forever receptive.