Sanford Fraser

 

 

 

(USA)

 

 

A Pigeon on the Sill

 

Lying in bed this morning

in and out of sleep

I wake up years ago with you.

 

Is that your voice laughing?

 

Wait. Don’t stop. Don’t go.

Snow is falling outside

filling the room with light.

 

Come here. Together

bound tight, our separate selves

will fall away, before

 

before this winter returns

a pigeon on the sill

no other voice.

 

 

At my desk

 

my legs are numb as stone

my head, stuffed with words

 

I stop reading

see myself running at the shore

 

feel hot sand beneath my feet

cold waves breaking, over my head.

 

Il ne me suffit pas de lire que les sables des plages sont doux ;

je veux que mes pieds nus le sentent.

 

 

André Gide, Les nourritures terrestres

 

Elevated

 

above the honking street

the train lifts me

in my gray suit.

 

Below the track

a biker zooms

through traffic.

 

My hand twists the throttle.

My elbows cock

like wings in black leather.

 

Happy Hour

 

In front of the Riviera Café

a layer of sand

softens the sidewalk.

5 beach umbrellas spread shade

on the metal tables.

 

Near the curb

a fake lifeguard stand

overlooks 7^th Avenue.

 

I sit with my gin & tonic

waiting for something to happen.

Waves of traffic roll by

or slam to a halt

at the light.

 

Is that you on the N°10 bus?

I see the wide door opening

feel the soft tar give

below my feet.

 

In the bar a piano plays ragtime

the notes splashing

through us.

 

You’re here.

We’re at the seashore.

 

 

In My Garden

 

In my garden

I’m always shaved

and fully dressed

the tree always trimmed

the hedge clipped

 

each flower labeled

with its Latin name

a Bachelor’s Button

(Centaurea cyanus)

in my lapel

 

everything fixed

on display

laughter and children

strictly forbidden.

 

Where’s Love?  you ask.

Next to me

in the white evening gown

the mannequin

 

immaculate

and thin.

 

 

Macho

 

I see his face

everywhere:

 

on tv

in the street

 

a wooden face

that’s like a wall

 

without windows

the eyes turned

 

inward

stalking

 

me.

 

Sometimes I want

to be him :

 

wear a new T-Shirt

carefully torn

 

use the latest drug

drive a Harley

 

turn on

a leather girl

 

fit her to me

like a glove.

 

 

Plastic Man

 

Through the window

the sidewalk of trash bags spills

into my room

plastic bottles roll beneath the bed

giant waves of them flow

into the kitchen.

 

I shut my eyes, then open them —

the bottles are still here

my Cheerios, everything I eat

tastes of plastic.

I swallow, digest it

my face, my smile

my words are plastic

I’m indestructible.

 

 

They

 

 

 

 

They march in single file

along the fashion highway

 

super-thin models

their faces frozen.

 

For awhile, you’re up there

with them

 

detached:

 

your hips bouncing back & forth

to the hip-hop beat

 

your eyes shouting to the applause:

Look at me.

 

Don’t look at me.

 

 

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