VERNON WARING : The Hungry Prince
DAVID BARNES : Thoughts in Winter
NANCY HAIDUCK : Summer
POETRYREPAIRS v12.11:131
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The Hungry Prince Thoughts in Winter Summer  
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VERNON WARING
The Hungry Prince
she sits on a bar stool, her legs encased in tight gray slacks, a wrinkled cigarette dangling from her  full red lips standing on her too-high high heels, she makes sure every eye is on her someone makes a lewd remark she laughs, heads out the door, walks a few blocks to her squalid room where she joins her old man on a shabby bed gazing up at the ceiling, she wonders if her baby, only a few feet away, will sleep through the night her old man - drunk, mumbling - reaches out to touch her she turns away, squinting at the faded wallpaper suddenly the el rumbles by, the windows shake and her baby cries out shuffling to the crib, she lifts him up, holds him close, their heartbeats caught in some primal sync "it's time," she whispers, cradling him, kissing him, stifling her tears "it's time to feed my hungry prince"
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The Hungry Prince Thoughts in Winter Summer  
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DAVID BARNES
Thoughts in Winter
July 3rd 2001
In autumn I always thought you would never leave... but now its winter. The Wisteria has shed all its autumn leaves a carpet down the driveway ... against the verandah beam, the creeper is shaky at the far end. You told me autumn would never end ... that I should stop smoking that it would kill me. Words, still in my head, recollections of middle age
POETRYREPAIRS 12.11: 131
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





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The Hungry Prince Thoughts in Winter Summer  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

NANCY HAIDUCK
Summer
This ledge of the Bronx between the last bus on Tremont Ave and the East River gets crazy in June when the sun stretches at nine and goes down to a watchman's gig in the city. Yes Yes Summer is here. His young wife and sun-burnt daughter have quit the cramped house in the flicker of tv light to enjoy the warm night air, honeysuckle, the blink of fireflies and a breeze cutting a swath to places beyond Tremont Ave, even beyond the city, as low river tides churn multitudes of glass and sand and leave something to be desired. They sit on the steps expecting the watchman's familiar gait, his starched white shirt gleaming like the moon. Soon he will answer their kisses, "Say, do you want to go for a midnight cruise on the Staten Island Ferry?" "Yes!" "Yes!" Summer is here. But for now, an old woman puts down her bags in front of him. She wants a rest, and so he opens a folding chair by the revolving door in the street lamp's nimbus, "I don't care if I get in trouble." She wraps her swollen hands around a cardboard cup of tea and bides her time. Yes, yes, Summer is here.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.11: 131
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VERNON WARING : The Hungry Prince
DAVID BARNES : Thoughts in Winter
NANCY HAIDUCK : Summer
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