Portrait of a Woman
She had
skin like leather
the cruelest mouth
I’d ever seen
and eyes as hard
as the streets
on which she walked
everything she owned
in a plastic crate
beneath her arm
an ancient radio
screaming jazz
as she walked down Eddy St.
on a Sunday
afternoon
her clothes
ragged and
ill fitting
but her legs
still as beautiful
as any
that ever were
and those eyes
meeting mine
daring me
to say so.
And No One Left to Remember
These days my wife
is troubled
by the slow and ongoing
death of our earth
and all the reasons for it
and how the president
and nobody else
much cares.
It keeps her from sleep.
She does not believe in god
but sometimes wishes
that she did.
The thought of every beautiful thing
gone
and no one left
to remember.
She asks me why we should be bothered
to do anything
at all
and I don’t have much of an answer
except that I imagine there must be some kind of beauty
here
in these tiny moments
the fact that they exist at all
is maybe reason enough.
I think about it and I
don’t think about it.
I’ve never known what to do about anything.
I think tomorrow I will start
drinking early.
Your Eyes Like The Sun
I have no god but
a decent bloody mary
on an otherwise
empty afternoon
does its part
to calm the troubled soul
and I imagine
others too
must weary
of trying to hold the world together
on a day
when you can’t get
too numb
too fast
on a day
when all the murders
and suicides
make perfect sense
when the surface of things
peels away in flakes
and the void shines through
burning your eyes
like the sun
like the flashlight
of a motherfucking cop
when you know you are
guilty.
William Taylor Jr. was born in
3 comments:
'Portrait of a Woman' is lovely.
Well done!
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Thank you!
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