Monday, June 18, 2012

The Statue

My beard grew grey and bitter
Waiting for you to get going
but you just sat there
immovable like a stern Buddha
saying nothing at all.

I stared really hard in every direction
tho you were directionless,
offering you a sign,

The wind whipped around
and you'd raise your head and give
me one great laugh, blinking
triumphantly into the void.
No kidding. I was there. Think about it.

I loved those Saturday mornings
and the kids playing baseball and the
red salamanders losing their tails,
and the statue of you they built
at the center on the grounds where
you sat smirking, smirking at the passersby
and the goings-on, smirking like
a real son of a bitch,

I knew it all back then, that you'd
never get outta there, and
that's why when somebody
goes, "Yeah he's still there,
believe me," I believe them, and
I smirk and laugh too,
as hard as I can, and say,
in my most stern voice,
"Well fuck you too, you son of a


  1. gritty Philly poems sir - dig the bitter beard image.

  2. Wow! Very powerful imagery. I feel like I was there... and a bit uncomfortable because I sort of like the statue. Great write.

    My pantry poem: Ubiety.

  3. I love the stern yet offhand tone. Like fierce flippancy.