Speak, Poet.

New poem

January

January
there are already parts of you
I have forgotten, half-coated
in the froth of celebration.
Perhaps as the heat of the room
plucks the liquid out of you
the floor is less possibility
and more coming back to earth.
But the stain is there.
The hardwood will not last
as long as it otherwise might,
and there is the warp,
the way this house will be Pisa-leaned
within a decade.
When the realtors come, asking
what color the walls are painted,
I say Alter. (with an a
if the inquiring family is religious).

Darling this is what celebration does to me:
makes of me a house I am trying to sell
before I’ve cleaned up the debris.



James Merenda

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