Poetry: David Allen

David Allen


And then the door slammed
and he stood there
in the middle of the room
looking toward the finality,
as if he could see the tracers
of her striding angry,
furiously from him.

"F**k this!"
she had said,
and the shock
of those two ugly words
echoed inside his foggy brain,
already confused
and struggling
to make sense
of what had happened.
The coins and the change bowl
and paperbacks and pens
he had swept with an angry arm
off the top of the bookshelf
lay scattered on the floor.
In his hand he clutched
the orange she'd thrown
at his head.

"Is this it?" he wondered.
"Is it finally over?
Or is this some new torture,
the start of some new
chapter in this confusing mystery?"
Outside, an engine started and revved
and the peel of rubber
told him
another non-supporting
character had just exited
stage left.


Fallen Poetry

The rocky shore
Of White Beach
On a perfect
Summer day.
A few clouds drift by
In the baby blue sky.
It’s quiet,
The vacationers are gone.
I am all alone --
The atmosphere calls for poetry.
And then, suddenly,
A slight wind
Nudges the pen
Just enough to fall
Off the picnic table
And onto the concrete
Slab of the shelter.
The pen nib is ruined.
I curse,
Take a swig of my beer
And go back
To the novel I had abandoned
For a moment of poetry.
It looks like rain.

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