Lachrymose man who sleeps here nightly
has told me before he has seen the demons.
I think about you in my pendulous evenings
crossing lone East River
where Brooklyn Bridge and smell of night’s
petrichor reminds you
of home now. I tell myself the man
will ask me for more money if I give him any,
fish out a pack of American Spirits
from my backpack
I keep on hand
for when I need to feel you.
Lachrymose lover fiends for things he doesn’t have:
some redolent woman, a syringe.
Gleaning fleabag masquerade.
The well dressed women dance and hold
unrelenting arms on cobble-stone
in tall windows peer at rooftops
on iron frames waving arms,
cumulus protest crepuscular gleam.
Under lullaby Citgo sign
stray fleas and rats
on Lansdowne listen.
Where I watch cathartic sky illuminate
in fading chorus of home run cheer.
Bar patrons’ clamor circumvents grumblings,
wilting flowers ripe for living.
I, small hand piano lover.
Your arpeggio words tempo-shift
through complex jazz chords.
I feel your rhythm. Time’s allude. Follow it:
4/4. 4/4. 3/4. 7?
Icon sunrise (the iconodules will
always win), your profile on my device
just two click, clicks from me. The tempo shifts.
I grasp you. Drowning.
Feel the earthquake smolder.
Stubbed hand piano lover
succumbs to numb of tendinitis,
that will rattle off numbers
I’ll try to count in 4.
Matthew Laverty is a poet, writer, music junkie, and caffeine and craft beer enthusiast who lives in the suburban Boston area. He earned his BLA (with dual concentrations in English and history) from the University of Massachusetts, Lowell, and he has studied creative writing under poet Maggie Dietz and critically acclaimed author Andre Dubus III. You can follow him on Twitter @MattLavertyPoet.