At the five millionth coffee they decided
to take the bull by the horns
hands on their thighs rose in chorus
from the folding chairs arranged in a circle
they ascended from the neon basement
to the frost of the primum mobile left open
and asked the angel on duty for an appointment
directly with the creator. With courteous urgency.
not protected by a waiting room in the dark
breathing warmth into their clenched fists they tried
their little speech again: look at us we are all
here and we are all equally wrong
we can’t love each other do something
and if you really don’t want to make us new again
touch us up, improve us, correct the obvious
error of youth. O almighty you.
And they smiled tremblingly wondering
so not to think of Vladimir and Estragon
behind masks of anxiety silhouetted
in the flickering of a lighter, how
he would finally show up
whether in a traditional light breeze
or a breath of late-Bobdylanian hoarseness
in everyone’s ear in hyperstereo.
They almost didn’t notice when it happened.
Those who did notice it kept quiet
so not to distract those accustomed to despair
when everyone sprouted a third limb
right in the center of their chest and their head
an obtuse hand, neither right nor left.
And they continued to melt in chatter
more delicate than dew. It was easier
to accept grace this way, correction
without stopping to wait for another,
the right one at last, the final tweak
that would not let them down. The grass was gray,
the night butts on the ground,
the dawn doomed to come.
(Translated from Italian by Patrick Williamson)
About the Creator
Guido Q
I am going to be born in a few years from now.
Comments (1)
Oooo, this was so intense and emotional! Loved your poem!