The Maynard
Spring 2015

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Hotel Lincoln Blues, Chicago

So someone’s bashed in Volvo, Honda, Jeep,
and Buick windows all along the street.
I’m back from breakfast, burping pork and sweet
preserves: not sure what fruit they were. The creep
who sat behind you eyed your ass. It’s mine,
my glance declared. We knew I lied. There is
a devil. Suns his loins, then takes a whiz
in Lincoln Park. He’s not Miltonic. Fine:
that makes him more a schlump, like me each time
I try to write a poem or make a move.
The cops and cabs whoosh by below, you’re on
the phone, your mother’s dying slow, I mime
the act of travel-writing. God, our groove
was back when you were wrapped around me. Now it’s gone.