I’ve watched her paint cherries,
She’d start early at night
and end late the next morning,
even outlasting me and the poems.
“I’m gonna catch some Z’s,” I’d finally say
as the November sun bends
around the smoketree
and the hot dog vendor opens his cart.
“Might be a good idea if you rested a little too”.
Sorry, she’d say.
I’m an artist first and a lover second.
But it’s never been the love that I’ve wanted.
Just the ability to keep in the details;
like how the boy on the corner ran
into the middle of rush hour traffic last week
to save his sister’s stuffed bear from certain death
or how it hasn’t rained in thirteen days
and the Hudson river is slowly shriveling
or how 35% of people who date
on personal ad websites are already married.
I wanna bring these details back
to an incensed room and craft them
into a good poem
as a guitar collects dust in the corner
and a bottle of white wine lays on ice.
And Amy, of course,
sketching a cicada in the hallway
as her portrait of sliced mangoes
hangs on the far wall above the TV.
Robert Hastings holds a BA in English from
Montclair State University. His poetry can be found in
publications such as The Munyori Poetry Journal, The Orange Room
Review, Adagio Verse Quarterly, Pocket Change, Tangent,Temenos
and Glass: A Journal of Poetry among others. When he is not
writing, he enjoys playing his guitar and riding the wave
wherever it may take him.