She did not know how
to articulate the existential risks
in a world of immortals, but
she did know she wanted
hot chocolate. She did know
the white lights strung across Larimer Street
reminded her of, well, she didn’t quite know what,
but she liked them, she liked them tonight
with the cup of hot chocolate (too much milk
and not enough cayenne) warm in her hands.
Scent of exhaust and urine and trash like the city
always has in the summer. And the sound of a man
plunking away on his guitar, his voice
not perhaps what she had hoped, but he was
after all singing. Yes, she though, if I were
alive forever, I would sing. And kiss. And sleep.
She could not say what was changing, but
she knew that it was, that it had been changing
since yesterday, since early last year, since her birth, since before that.
“It’s alright,” she said, to no one, “It’s alright if
tonight we do nothing,.” But something
was already happening, It had something
to do with emptiness. It had something
to do with night. Her shoes were lost
beneath the street. She knew she could not keep
the dawn from coming.
She didn’t even try.
With Labor Day behind us, thus ending “summer,” I’ve been pondering how to express what mountain-valley towns are like, during the shoulder seasons. This poem does just that. The hot chocolate has too much milk, not enough cayenne? Well, that’s okay. And other things are also not quite what I’d hope for? Well, that’s okay, as well.
Being at home makes it all okay.
Ed, What do you mean the shoulder seasons? I love this phrase. Name your next book that!
shoulder seasons: the quiet, non-touristy downtimes between summer vacation visitations and ski-season frenzy and the re-start (all over again) of summer madness.
So full of searching, that mystery intact start to end. The mystery of human perception of the world. Great details throughout. The urine of cities, the singing, the comfort of hot chocolate. Rich, the poem, I mean. Though the chocolate perhaps, too. Here’s one of my favorite hesitations —
She did know
the white lights strung across Larimer Street
reminded her of, well, she didn’t quite know what,
but she liked them, she liked them tonight
with the cup of hot chocolate…
Such a natural train of thought, the inner working of thoughts. I like it.
Oops I double liked accidentally, but on purpose cuz I love any poem that starts with Rachel……