Appetite (3)

Conceiving that restored, or now this acre
of poured stone, suited to his liking...
Places start a man to think, astonishing himself
to spook the fish-fry in wee hours, keeping
the ideas up, admiring the arms of riveters,
their modesties matched to shifts, voices matched
to the dream-scores and impending etiquette,
causing a man to ask himself, to wonder himself
how many kinds of cold must be required,
to put the seas in him to rest, the hand to rest,
as automatic as that is, leading the sticks
and shaded sticks across the sketchpad, seeking
to resurrect one face, and now one face in these
their sketched appearances as drinkers,
concealing the buck and knockabout, the rack of dumpster cardboard
shaken by dry breezes.  Older, wishing well,
he will enjoy the dress and brushing bodies as they pass,
crowding the rooms to dine, to flirt                                               
or laugh by him and share his service, getting up
or out, begging his pardon or opinion
as he sketches worlds for them.   Mid-century settles
into place, and the night to place, the voices
that had meant pandhandle and dodge, the looks
of stumblers, closing in to signify,
and letting themselves be drawn, like figures
in a block dance, resuscitants, he thinks,
lingering on bent spoons, and in conditional pulp,
fingered and under-read, best left to disengage
in feats of sour telepathy, among the creatures
spared, stowed above the loft tables, as wooden
as anyone come back, (who'd only thought
to kiss the girls,) looking the ways men look,
after the winds have wrestled past.

 

© Appetite (2)