Last Call

                        —The Cobblestone, Dublin, Ireland

This is the place that is the poem
This is the place you don’t care that your colors don’t rhyme
            the length of the lines awry and free
            angsts in squirming stitchings
            successive visions foisted upon
            an augmentation of one
            mathematical vibrant string of sound
This is another of the places of the lovers and vividly
            they appear to the lonely green eyes
            waves of dark and complicated hair
            their own eyes a landmark dark brown
            their careless ocular intimacy
            arms and hands draped in each others’ smooth as
            palace marble in a fairy tale
            phalanx of empty pint glasses leaning
            as in warm trusting fright
            into the shoulder of Himself
            the almost pathological calm of one alone
            arm draped over the booth back
            painting of a Session that hangs above him
            patchwork of brushstrokes
            reds blues yellows incongruously bright
            pitch browns and blacks for the locks of the players
This is the place of the poem of foolish last-minute too-late exuberance
            for when you see you hadn’t the wits or the courage to find it
            the soiled perfection the guts and soul of it the violent mystery
            seamless not puckered but scarlet and ready to speak
            for when comes burrowing the sensation
            overwhelming explicit like a new pair of spectacles long overdue
            of much more than time having passed
            of skipping flat pebbles over bright brittle skins of a deeper and murkier sea
But it has to be the place of the poem of you don’t care
            the glances almost discreet masking amusement with scorn
            or is it the other way round the care of them discarded
            lone black spade from a hand of cherry red hearts
This is the place on that part of the road when the “click” when the snap when the piss
            of the piss is poured and pours and pools into desire for the right language
            of this road of this place its givens taken its ebbings flown
            of the resources of a person’s night

Charles Leggett is a professional actor based in Seattle, WA, USA. His poetry has been published in the US, the UK, Ireland, Australia, New Zealand and Canada. Recent/forthcoming publications include Sublevel, As Above So Below, Automatic Pilot, Volney Road Review, The Ocotillo Review, and Heirlock Magazine.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.