O xanthous brickwork, your scars
canted with shadow... my mirror platter
cries on the left hand side, and cool air
settles in the burnished tree tops.

It's almost October and the days just pile
on top of each other without any meaning in them.
I wet my face at the vessel, soap to soak,
waiting for the death of the aloe flower

that perches on its lonely stalk,
defiant and sorrowful, tendril shaking
in a cold busker's breeze.
Scuttling traffic claws into the dim hour,

the sun wests away; brick goes dark,
browning like steak. The air rises
into the ape-hour to meet the landslide
of dead angels flickering across the band.

There aren’t many jobs
where Sunday night
cold grips your guts
and has you palpitate

while midwives are called
and antiques are roadshowed
every inch of will is bent up
in figuring the impossible

if we all know how leading horses to water ends
then can we not give the stable hands a break?

As I watch my own digits shake,
stable hands seems like a joke
no one lets me in on

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                Every Day is Poetry Day, But Sometimes…

I dunno; is life getting in the way?
Some days the gods, the fates, the little elves
Are fiercely determined to part you from your words
That you must not encounter books or thoughts

(Even the little notebook in your pocket)

But only the vacuum cleaner, the crescent wrench
The washing machine, the cows, the dogs, the lawn
The daily round of crises, duties, and chores -
And maybe only a few lines read at lunch

(Because you always have a book at hand)

A few lines scribbled at the end of the day
Well, they will have to do – whaddaya say?

(Busting a sweat makes you a better writer)

Dearest,

I sit with your plucked wildflowers,
in the near blue hours that ramble past
like a coach-and-four. You return
"upon the morrow” and I have said
your name aloud so often
it is thin as gold leaf.
Crow's speech marks the new day
under a gunmetal fog-dome
that slips spells in the sinking heat.
The gray river sidles along the city;
I'm out of time. I send my love.

All the missed opportunities,
the collapsed, balled-up destinies
entwined with small scotch:
the heart misses a beat

when WhatsApp chimes in:
a message from A-----,
who got the wheel moving.
She's had a baby in Dublin,

but is looking to move back stateside.
The whole year waves violently
as it drowns in a Glencairn.
The clouds are fried on a rain griddle,

grease-dark, the outer bands
of the hurricane carcass.
A catalog of dresses sails on down
the long cement string, oblivious.

My little cat sleeps on the red rug,
& my old friend reads the legions
while I pluck at the silver tomb-pall
of my two day shirt.

Turn on the dread lamps,
let the bitter day escape into the vents
of the cyanotic eve - another fell day
chokes itself black into the withered ether.

This breeze would scarcely stir a wasp-wing;
how will it ever bear away the coming rain
massing in loose cuffs over the flat-faced slate?
It won't. The rain will squat here in the gray
like Baba Yaga's hut. My eye drowns
in the soft drift of the water petals.
There is a single white cloud, doubled
in the black water of the road. It doesn't move,
as if paralyzed. There is no joy in this place,
only this numb wisp that hangs
like a poorly glued ornament:
a quick wheeze, a gasp, a cigarette breath,
a wracked cough, a corpse-smear.

There is a cough and a bark
& then a roar, and suddenly
the green night is singing.

A light rain hangs like a history,
the silver toad bus squirms stop to stop,
the street racers flick rubber kisses.

In the opposite building, a woman
undresses before watching a movie:
the rain begins to flop and hook.

A bicyclist shines and streaks down
the sleekish funnel. The moon is forgetful.
A love story is playing out on the sidewalk.

The green night cascades smokes
with sharking clouds that drift north
into Maryland with their lethal line.

The cat sleeps on my great-aunt's rug:
I am alone in this quiet. Something is dying.
I watch the rain dry on the summer road.

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                     “Lawrence’s Apple Watch is Fully Charged”

Oh, sure, the MePhone is pleased to say that now
But long before the day spins down the watch
Percentages add up to little and so
I must find the magnetic sticky thing

The charger and the watch embrace with passion
You can almost see the electricity
That sparks their one-ness and their holy bond
Leaving my wrist empty and timeless for a time

“Lawrence’s Apple Watch is fully charged”
But reluctant to leave its charger for long