Tell me how old I am.
Just now, sitting by the window,
possum rug over my knees,
I am reading Elizabeth Bishop's 'The Mountain',
which could be about life or something behind her,
and wanting to know more about life,
how it strips things away and defeats,
but never really knowing -
anyway, I was reading aloud
when a young couple, inspecting the flats,
walked past my window.
Suspicious was their look,
as if they didn't like what they heard
or marvelled at a tenement that housed such types,
wondering how much they truly wanted it
and if they would ever pay such a stupid price.
Crimson Crop by Peter Rose (UWAP) is a book that seems endless,
I can't seem to get to the end of it. I usually wait until I have conquered
a book before I pick a poem to post - read it, and grasped it, and put it
on the pile to be shelved alphabetically ( in this case between Yannis
Ritsos and Gig Ryan). But Crimson Crop doesn't seem to want to let
me go, so I have chosen Open Book, almost unwittingly – perhaps
because Elizabeth Bishop is tops with me. And also, perhaps, because
I like the contemplate the stupid price we pay.
If you want to read more Tuesday Poems click on the qill icon at the top.