He left his shoes, scuffed loafers,
on the bridge. A cordovan pair
he could have shed
anywhere: at the university
beside his desk, under Tate’s coffee table,
at the foot of a lover’s bed.
Every night he thought, tomorrow.
Mornings, he remembered
his suit at the cleaners, his essay
on Marlowe, students waiting
outside his office. January 7
reasons ran dry.
He bathed and trimmed his beard,
putting on a new shirt.
In eight degrees he walked
to the bridge.
First published in Touchstone (SP 2008), #40. Ed. David Murphy.
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1 comment:
hi chella i really liked this poem. romantic imagery (leaving his shoes at the foot of a lovers bed) contrasted really well with his sort of hyper-rational approach to suicide. (no excuses left to avoid it.)
i am still writing ive been writing a lot lately, mostly about my grandmother who just died, i need to post them.
i'm at allan hancock college but will be at sbcc in the spring because for the winter i am planning on studying abroad with them in turkey/israel/morocco.
i miss you.
allison
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