|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
Travesty comes in little bits.
The way a student slurs his questions,
the way another purposely misunderstands.
I recall the courtyard in Voorhies Hall
the way it rang with the vagaries of Milton and Yeats.
There was a woman whom I adored
and who I didn’t know. There’s always one.
If you notice, they’re never what you imagine.
And I was not the Petruchio I thought I was;
my Shakespeare professor had lice.
And once, I thought I had made a friend,
sitting at the coffee shop, but it turns out
she was afraid and wanted too badly to be famous.
The Glück is reading there now.
She comes with her Harvard and her praise.
If only my sour soul would settle into a malaise,
the same my co-workers have.
But I react and and rant and rave
against my better judgement.
Ever notice how quiet everyone gets
when you’re angry and showing it?
Is this American or does everyone do it?
Sometimes, I want to microwave the world on high.
And that’s when I know I’ve gone
as far as I should—little did I know
that time was skating by in her bright orange yoga pants
on a trail between the redwood trees in Santa Cruz.
How could I have known what began on those trails,
the limitless limits I would seek.
But I’ve written about this all before
and got nowhere but a foggy night in San Francisco.
Maybe that’s where it all ends,
on a quiet night by the wharf, no plans,
just a bowl of clam chowder and the sound
of foghorns, some poet blazing away
on “Typewriter Night” at the indie bookstore.
About Alejandro Escudé