The Poetess’s Apartment
To get there, you walk up a steep hill,
past the parking lot where the cars are neither
new nor luxurious. Then, up more steps, to the
entrance of a plain brick building—and still two more flights inside,
to the Poetess’s apartment. The hike is well worth the effort,
because from its generous living room window
you can see the park, or at least its treetops.
The limited view may be an advantage, because
the rooftop of the next building blocks the parkway,
where my ghost bikes go blasting by—unbaffled BMW’s, mostly,
but also a Norton ass shaker, a leaky Harley flathead,
and a one lung BSA. Other phantoms that inhabit the environs
include exes and old girlfriends. There are also several places
where you once could score a lid.
Inside, it’s as though the Poetess has lived there since
a lid cost five bucks. The thriving fern, the exhausted couch,
the dining room walls lined with unfinished pine bookshelves;
the tabletop completely hidden by manuscripts. The gray cat
that sniffs in your direction and leaves the room.
She apologizes for the mess, but all the clutter fits perfectly,
like in a poem about a crazy love gone by.
by Alan Abrams
Editor’s Note: The exquisite detail of the imagery in this poem is the framework upon which the speaker’s love for “the poetess” rests, though nothing is explicitly stated unto the closing line.
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