Friday, June 17, 2011

Spring, Young Man Crying, Greenwich Village

Outside the trendy bistro
phone jammed into his ear
the dark-haired busboy
stands oblivious
to me, to the
entire urban
night-time tide
flowing all

around him.

Tears drip down his
cheek and off his chin
his stiff white cuff
is smeared with
nosesnot, gleaming
like high-priced
oyster slime

as his soft Spanish words
fall into the eddy,
pebbles pulled out of sight.

His red-rimmed eyes reject
this swanky scene,
bright silk dresses floating by
on arms of thinnest summer wool.

"It's such a balmy night!"

His life that was so full is empty now
she doesn't love him anymore

he can't believe it
he can't believe it

Barbara Riddle
June 2011

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