Poems
by R. Gerry
Fabian
Evening Adagio
Now at sunset,
a pitcher of iced tea
with several condensation droplets
running down the side
sits on the wooden porch table.
Two empty glasses beside it.
The katydids are just warming up.
The slow unison squeaks
of two rocking chairs
joins the quiet chorus.
And then there’s
you
softly holding my hand.
Meticulously Sly
That last tango -
a dark fragrance
beneath cobblestone alleys-
peeling obscure band posters-
in soiled black pumps.
A beauty beyond slavery -
tear- stained mascara-
a crushed rose petal conscience
riddled with the turbulence
of old green copper gutters
resolves to set her own terms.
The Decline of Day Dancing
“I am the last day dancer
about to become less.”
I am the private eye.
The case to investigate.
On telephone poles
or in parked cars,
the secrets become extinct.
As a statue,
by day,
there is very little exhibition
permitted.
I see too well
or so, it seems.
Always my smiles are tight,
ready to frown if necessary.
Only at celebrations,
private or public,
do I day dance
and even then
it is in anxious anticipation
of night.
