One boot sags dumb like him in a corner.
He drops the other to the floor with a grimace.
He’s still devout. If his face contorts,
It’s from pain in both his shoulders. A nuisance,
Not metaphor. It’s the fruit of labor–
–for Goran Simic
I dropped into sleep while reading a book of poems
by the Bosnian friend I write for here. They’re brilliant,
full of red flowers and graves and wrenching accounts
of his homeland during the 90s. They lend some…
I found this suitcase slumped in a dark attic corner
like a drunk awash in self- pity. I was Me once.
There’s a burn mark beside one latch. I tell myself,
with a bit of wonder, Me used to smoke in those days.
Indeed– and drink.…
https://sydneylea.net/wp-content/uploads/sydneylea.png00webmasterhttps://sydneylea.net/wp-content/uploads/sydneylea.pngwebmaster2020-05-31 21:45:152020-05-31 21:45:15Old Leather Suitcase and Me: A Fable
The following essay is from my forthcoming collection, The Music of What Happens, a compendium of newspaper articles I wrote as Vermont Poet Laureat (2011-2015):
People have often asked me, of course, why I chose poetry as my principal vocation.…
Fats and Little Richard would come to our rescue,
but before they did I ached for Patti Page,
“The Singin’ Rage,” as the radio deejays dubbed her.
I remember loving “How Much Is that Doggie in the Window?”
And “Mockingbird Hill”–…
Hank Nicci worked as the gas pump man
at Greville’s Sunoco all that summer.
He had a heart like a Valentine,
but softball-sized, tattooed on a shoulder.
It said Mom. What else would it say in those times?
His bleach-blond girlfriend…