At 158 this morning, I woke up. The radiator was whistling, my dreams were filled with calendars, and each time I rolled over I could swear that the angel of death was unfolding his dark wings from the top of my wardrobe. Of course, this probably means that I need to get the radiator looked at, not work on plans to go see the opera in Munich and Berlin before bed and move the black suitcases from the top of the wardrobe. I should put bright flowers there or something like that, although they could be menacing, too.
So, here’s what I did to tire myself out: toss and turn, pace the hallway, write an awful poem about Oktoberfest (see below), contemplate making breakfast, call people in the states and receive calls, read more of The Unbearable Lightness of Being (which is brilliant), watch Ron White comedy (because comedy always eases me into the happy dreams) and finally write this. If I don’t get to sleep in 2 minutes, I’m going to do every bit of sudoku I can find and then, maybe I’ll knit.
There must be a purpose to all of this besides leading to a very tired morning.
And in the while, they lost the poet
At Oktoberfest, the Irishmen dressed themselves
in cheap lederhossen bought online. The flaps didn’t flap
so they peed through suede britches
with red feathers in their caps.
Photographers from German newspapers
took pictures of their affable smiles,
their impromptu jig by the bumper cars,
the foam from the maas on their upper lips.
This is how I met them: the doctor, the plumber,
and a man they called Homer for the thickness
of his accent. It sounded a joke, but they vouched
it true, and an Irishman never lies.
The amber flowed thin but carried a punch.
I kissed a leprechaun … or not; who knows,
as the sun swirled with the concrete’s gray.
Along the way, they lost Homer, off to his own
odyssey to find a home across the sea.
He must be dancing with Calypso now.
At least, this is how I fancied him, while I waited
for a date with one in another town.
He called me beauty and won me plastic
flowers, the bears to hard to earn.
He had said he’d never let me go,
but he did, he did. One day I’ll learn to never
trust a man in suede lederhossen
on a sunny, Oktober day, but the beer was warm
as a spring lover’s embrace.
It was autumn that was an apple’s worm