bi_janus Posted April 20, 2012 Report Share Posted April 20, 2012 This one I wrote when I was fifteen. I suppose it's typical of poetry written by children of alcoholic parents. Each year, about this time, I rework the last five lines, which are the only lines of the poem that have evolved. If you need happy verse, this one won't help. The Idea of Usefulness at Snyder’s Bar (1965) Bi Janus No warmth on my palm sliding over the wood table, where sawdust is the unction for a child’s confusion. At the right hand of a beer John Joseph sits in conversation at the bar with an archangel who keeps his glass full. The pucks slide without the friction of our hands held tight when walking with Dad to the tavern for quality time. The silence of that progress, his guilt heart-locked and leaden, fashions my rough desire to find my use in his life. Would I be useful if flesh were stripped from me in a sky burial and my thighbones were wrought flutes? Quote Link to comment
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