Brunch Sonnet 6
Patti Smith at St. Mark’s Bookshop
Patti kicked the g’s off the ends of words—thinkin’,
fryin’. She had long dyed hair with undercurls of grey,
no secrets there. She arrived on time in a black beanie,
her voice skidding out of her throat like wet feet on sand.
She was amazed to have her name on a New Directions book,
she waited fifty years but it happened. Fifty years isn’t so long
for a dream. Her neighbors in Detroit used to spiff up her lawn
while she was gone on trips, she hated that, she wanted
those flowers for tea, for wine, the dandelions. The worst thing
about Detroit wasn’t the lack of a coliseum or museum, but
the lack of a café. She said she’d sit in some whitewashed
corner at the nearest 7-11 and try to read, pretending herself
at the Café des Poètes with a mug, a watch, a bit of time,
a few sips left, a cigarette, the table wooden, stained.