by melissa green
Pre-Raphaelite hair, a little black dress
and fuck-me pumps, my poems drawing
actors, dancers, painters to my Village digs,
books, opera tickets, the Met.
Someone else is living the life I thought Iâ€™d get.
When I whistle, a white horse
in Central Park lifts its head, wickering.
I lie down like Nebucadnezzer to graze.
My lips kissing a subway grate
five hundred miles away, years too late,
a forelock whisks my cheek.
0 thoughts on “a story”
This is an impressive poem. I forget when it came through, but there’s something distant about it that intrigues me. It’s times like this that I regret poems only stay featured for 24 hours.
it’s your site man- put up an editors pick tab and just put it there.
It’s your site and they’re all editor’s picks.