Day One: ‘Hugo On The 21st’

April 1, 2017

Note: April is here again, and so is another (ambitious) poem-a-day project on this blog to help celebrate National Poetry Month. Check back daily for updates.

A black sedan oozes through East Williamsburg.
December 21st, all wind and jingles
radioed in. Carols. Familiar tunes
bend where I recall, harmonies soar.
Hugo, the driver, hums them. I pretend
I don’t hear. It’s his birthday.

My left reveals an empty sunken seat
where you once perched, round-faced and lipstick red
and bangs that dropped in tandem like a dress to the floor.
Thinking of you, how we cut mouths in
another car, not this one, atop the bridge.
Tonight’s girl at the bar was not like you.

Savage how this route winds round the temples,
Hugo and me assaulting tradition
at every stoplight. His GPS prays us
straight up Sumner Ave, bakeries shuttered
next to brownstones. He’ll cut yellows, so
I’ll tip five. We’re done here. Bing Crosby
will sing him home, the wind chiming a hymn.


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