The Monarch

jake — Wed, 08 Aug 2012 20:36:01 +0000

sitting not on some wheat farm
but in the bowels of a city building
shade over the window like a hushed secret in a hospital ward
(something is dying and something else is living
it is not fair to be loud about these things)
sitting not on some wheat field
where trucks take away loads of grain
and birds hunt and the mice run or don’t
I am in a plain room, four walls, or so, ceiling and floor
through which anything might crash as music good or bad
or like the pipes blown when the man wants just
a bit more, just a bit more
the light is a touch yellow and soon it will mix with the moon
the cats here are outdoors and sitting on cars like they own them, lease and all
here the city is covered in a hood of rain pulled tight
the bartenders know the name and what to drink
I am some open-handed client some old person waiting in line
sitting now not on some wheat farm as others may
instead in some small room in the bottom of a city building
wondering when, like the end of violins, the heat will be turned off
or as the timpani drums in an orchestra boom when my eyelids will close
and as I wait I sail words like young men and women running up + down
a stoop a key passed between hands

Jake Uitti

The Monarch