West Coast Poetry Project: Portland poem.

Stumptown Poem

 

You can see a bit

of every woman’s

back here in hot

summer Portland.

Mine, too. This dress

not stolen, stitched

on Saturdays, blue

buttons down front,

I sewed them on.

I could never buy

a cup of coffee

every morning,

can’t start my day

with paying for it.

I brew my own bad

habits, good stove

coffee, plans for beds

of flowers. Foxgloves

finished with their bells

drip the streets, black

-eyed Susans stare

and stare at sky. Too

hot to hate, names

of authors occur to me

too slowly, Larkin or

Levine, the faces

hidden from me

stay in hiding,

the thieves who took

our precious gems

are out there holding

books I chose

in San Francisco,

spending time

with photographs

of trees so tall

they split in two,

their faces painted

gaudy in my blush,

toes  white with toothpaste

intended for my teeth.

 

 

*Our car was robbed in Portland, all our good stuff stolen.

 

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2 thoughts on “West Coast Poetry Project: Portland poem.

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