the raffish
by Iris Palma
featured in Issue 0
featured in Issue 0
I thought I had something to write, but instead I'm buzzing strangely as if I'm a conduit for all the
lost currents in the air,
the static electricity.
I yearn to untangle.
My insides are a coil of jumper cables
and perhaps I'll take up yoga,
And then I will write such a story that the whole world will read it
and weep.
And the whole world will be that one guy
who rows the gondola boat in City Park
because I will have left it
by the dock.
And the story will weigh more than the factory which made the pen, and all the people will line up
to purchase their rides.
To sit in his boat and glide on the water
and hear him tell the story
again and again,
And their tears will fill the lake.
lost currents in the air,
the static electricity.
I yearn to untangle.
My insides are a coil of jumper cables
and perhaps I'll take up yoga,
And then I will write such a story that the whole world will read it
and weep.
And the whole world will be that one guy
who rows the gondola boat in City Park
because I will have left it
by the dock.
And the story will weigh more than the factory which made the pen, and all the people will line up
to purchase their rides.
To sit in his boat and glide on the water
and hear him tell the story
again and again,
And their tears will fill the lake.
Iris Palma is the nom de plume of a part-time poet who otherwise wishes to remain anonymous.
