Gary Sloboda
Late Letter From Larkin
No longer harried by the platitudes
And talk of what should have been,
Lonely and cold, tracing these words
With a tooth-gnarled pen
On yellow paper that when laid out
On the end table by the sill darkens
In the sun like hide parchment,
I have faith the snap peas, hard cheese
And tomato juice, the butter and bread,
Will sustain me, the black tea
Having permanently stained my enamel
A ghostly gray so that the sarcasm
Of my smile is a captured fog.
I have taken these words as seriously
As an apartment fire or upper leg wound
But far past the light of my peers
The age of success has absconded
Its promise to others, mostly men.
And as the streetlamps drape
Their yellow cones of light at the feet
Of the cityscape, the words nursing home
Repeat on the loop of my mind
And I feel the absent weight of my toupee
On the mannequin head in the water closet.
I am moving this pen across
The sun-brittle paper of past summers
And only distantly aware of the snow
Beginning to fall through branches
Onto the black veins of the streets.
This late, late writing cannot wait
But it’s Boxing Day and I’m in Hull
Where there are no regrets.
Gary Sloboda is a lawyer, writer and musician, but not necessarily in that order. His writing has appeared this year or is forthcoming in such places as BlazeVOX, Blue Fifth Review, decomP, Nerve Lantern and Menacing Hedge. He is writing a book-length collection of poems entitled “Tremor Philosophies.” He lives in San Francisco.
Return to July 2014 Edition
No longer harried by the platitudes
And talk of what should have been,
Lonely and cold, tracing these words
With a tooth-gnarled pen
On yellow paper that when laid out
On the end table by the sill darkens
In the sun like hide parchment,
I have faith the snap peas, hard cheese
And tomato juice, the butter and bread,
Will sustain me, the black tea
Having permanently stained my enamel
A ghostly gray so that the sarcasm
Of my smile is a captured fog.
I have taken these words as seriously
As an apartment fire or upper leg wound
But far past the light of my peers
The age of success has absconded
Its promise to others, mostly men.
And as the streetlamps drape
Their yellow cones of light at the feet
Of the cityscape, the words nursing home
Repeat on the loop of my mind
And I feel the absent weight of my toupee
On the mannequin head in the water closet.
I am moving this pen across
The sun-brittle paper of past summers
And only distantly aware of the snow
Beginning to fall through branches
Onto the black veins of the streets.
This late, late writing cannot wait
But it’s Boxing Day and I’m in Hull
Where there are no regrets.
Gary Sloboda is a lawyer, writer and musician, but not necessarily in that order. His writing has appeared this year or is forthcoming in such places as BlazeVOX, Blue Fifth Review, decomP, Nerve Lantern and Menacing Hedge. He is writing a book-length collection of poems entitled “Tremor Philosophies.” He lives in San Francisco.
Return to July 2014 Edition