Issue |
 |
May |
|
a poem by M.P. Powers
On the Thalys with Goethe
As we roar through the German countryside
on our way to Paris, there are castles, forests,
cows asleep in pastures; a here and there
town sitting amidst rolling fairytale
hills and gently winding streams. The sky
is gray and somber, and I am in a halfempty
traincar, in a half-empty
mood. In my hands, Goethe's Selected Verse
seems exceptionally
unalive compared to the quietly
curious mannerisms of the young French
woman across from me. She's probably twenty
years my junior--barely legal, wearing
a softclinging aqua sweater, frayed about
the wrists and tight leather pants that shine
a little. She lifts her leg upon the seat, tosses
her dark long curls to one side and ties them
with a pink ribbon.
I look away. Outside, a man is hauling
firewood in a red cart. A steeple rises up
against the clouds. A town disappears.
I turn the page,
glance at her again; her fingers twisting her hair,
face angelic in the light. She will eventually drive
at least one of her lovers to suicide,
if she hasn't already.
She looks over suddenly, and I look down,
feeling like an old lech
caught gawking. I turn another page and keep
pretending what a marvelous piece
of literature is this
deadfish in my hands.
on our way to Paris, there are castles, forests,
cows asleep in pastures; a here and there
town sitting amidst rolling fairytale
hills and gently winding streams. The sky
is gray and somber, and I am in a halfempty
traincar, in a half-empty
mood. In my hands, Goethe's Selected Verse
seems exceptionally
unalive compared to the quietly
curious mannerisms of the young French
woman across from me. She's probably twenty
years my junior--barely legal, wearing
a softclinging aqua sweater, frayed about
the wrists and tight leather pants that shine
a little. She lifts her leg upon the seat, tosses
her dark long curls to one side and ties them
with a pink ribbon.
I look away. Outside, a man is hauling
firewood in a red cart. A steeple rises up
against the clouds. A town disappears.
I turn the page,
glance at her again; her fingers twisting her hair,
face angelic in the light. She will eventually drive
at least one of her lovers to suicide,
if she hasn't already.
She looks over suddenly, and I look down,
feeling like an old lech
caught gawking. I turn another page and keep
pretending what a marvelous piece
of literature is this
deadfish in my hands.
© by M.P. Powers
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #9 ~ May 2010