For T.J.
grooveamatic
Posts: 1,374
There are men with grease-covered fingers
Who in shack-like bars
Drink strong whiskey
Night after night
And speak of earthy things
Like work and sports
Cars and overtime
Night after night.
They wear the tattered clothes of toil
And smell like mud and forgotten coffee;
These men with the grease-covered fingers
Don't come and go
(don't change season to season)
And for better or worse
They know the value of a passing hour.
There are wrinkled women with knitting needles
Who in large bay windows sit
As the town becomes cold
And all around them lights go dim
(pull the needle, pull the string).
They watch the cars drive slowly by
While inside their brains
The foggy undercurrent of old age rages
(the broken bones of youth?
the marriages, the foot doctors,
the miserable trips to the beach with the bee stings,
remember?)
And the smells of fried eggs and moth balls
Leak from under their doors;
These sagging women with the knitting needles
Have forgotten what they used to know about time,
And bodies.
There are the lawyers, the savages, the body-building kids;
There are men in tight pants, women at car washes, babies in blankets;
There are balloonists, enthusiasts, part-time party clowns;
There are the frat boys with the tucked-in Polos,
Women on Death Row delivering infants,
The dry-wall hanger with the nagging cough, the cab drivers who smell of leather,
Shoe salesman round every corner,
Folks asking for coins,
Mail ladies with Carpal Tunnel
Soda-guzzling fat kids
Coked-out sweaty toll booth people
The nameless the homeless the shoeless the hairless
There are the football players, the deacons, the late-night whores;
There are the gray judges, trampoline families, laughter running through sprinklers;
There are Lobster-catchers whose hands smell like salt and death;
There are Siamese twins, plow drivers, folks with no faith;
There are musty shut-ins,
Gamers, the high-fashion minded,
All of them silently ticking, ticking, ticking,
The world a massive mutable bomb.
And then there is you, T.J., with your
Six-to-eight weeks to live
And your twirling dance 'round the dining room;
Oh how I wish I could know you more
(ask you more questions, tell you more things)
And that time could stop for now.
But it won't
(it doesn't; it never has)
And when your spark arcs over my roof some night
On it's way to where you're going
I hope we can share a brief glance
So you can see me smiling so wide
Thinking
You lived! You lived!
Who in shack-like bars
Drink strong whiskey
Night after night
And speak of earthy things
Like work and sports
Cars and overtime
Night after night.
They wear the tattered clothes of toil
And smell like mud and forgotten coffee;
These men with the grease-covered fingers
Don't come and go
(don't change season to season)
And for better or worse
They know the value of a passing hour.
There are wrinkled women with knitting needles
Who in large bay windows sit
As the town becomes cold
And all around them lights go dim
(pull the needle, pull the string).
They watch the cars drive slowly by
While inside their brains
The foggy undercurrent of old age rages
(the broken bones of youth?
the marriages, the foot doctors,
the miserable trips to the beach with the bee stings,
remember?)
And the smells of fried eggs and moth balls
Leak from under their doors;
These sagging women with the knitting needles
Have forgotten what they used to know about time,
And bodies.
There are the lawyers, the savages, the body-building kids;
There are men in tight pants, women at car washes, babies in blankets;
There are balloonists, enthusiasts, part-time party clowns;
There are the frat boys with the tucked-in Polos,
Women on Death Row delivering infants,
The dry-wall hanger with the nagging cough, the cab drivers who smell of leather,
Shoe salesman round every corner,
Folks asking for coins,
Mail ladies with Carpal Tunnel
Soda-guzzling fat kids
Coked-out sweaty toll booth people
The nameless the homeless the shoeless the hairless
There are the football players, the deacons, the late-night whores;
There are the gray judges, trampoline families, laughter running through sprinklers;
There are Lobster-catchers whose hands smell like salt and death;
There are Siamese twins, plow drivers, folks with no faith;
There are musty shut-ins,
Gamers, the high-fashion minded,
All of them silently ticking, ticking, ticking,
The world a massive mutable bomb.
And then there is you, T.J., with your
Six-to-eight weeks to live
And your twirling dance 'round the dining room;
Oh how I wish I could know you more
(ask you more questions, tell you more things)
And that time could stop for now.
But it won't
(it doesn't; it never has)
And when your spark arcs over my roof some night
On it's way to where you're going
I hope we can share a brief glance
So you can see me smiling so wide
Thinking
You lived! You lived!
.........................................................................
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
No one needs a smile more than someone who fails to give one,
After you die...you know how to LIVE!
unfairness, yes. but also beauty and joy, and sorrow, no?
thanks guys for reading it.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Should I give it to her? I can't decide.
It depends on who she is. Some people will love everything you write for them, and some won't know how to feel, and a small minority always think it somehow patronizes their pain. It's an excellent poem though, I would say go for it, I think it's worth the risk for someone to really enjoy a heartfelt gift against the risk of it becoming a minor inconvenience.
No one needs a smile more than someone who fails to give one,
After you die...you know how to LIVE!
Well, re-reading it, I am wondering how well you know this person. Is she just a casual friend or someone you care deeply for? I'm not knocking your poem at all, believe me, I think it is very descriptive and well written. I think if I were going to die, I would want to know how much I was loved and appreciated and what a special person I was in your life and how thankful you were to have had the priviledge of knowing me. I think I would be very personal. Just my two cents for what it's worth.
She's an employee of mine, actually. I'm her manager at a restaurant. The 'twirling dance round the dining room' actually refers to her job as a hostess at work, not my or her dining room.
So, I don't know her tremendously well. We have a great working relationship...but it is nothing more than that.
I want to improve the last few weeks of her life...if there is a chance the poem could cause an awkward moment or make her more sad....well....I am so conflicted!!!
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
I had considered that. I had thought about adding a third section that is like the first two, a 'snapshot' of a kind of person, and then leaving the 'list' part that comes after it but trimming it or changing it considerably; I'm also worried about spending too much time on the poem; wouldn't it be horrible if she died today?
I'll probably do some stuff to it today and then give it to her Friday or Saturday, which are I believe the next days I work with her.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
I'm a manager at a restaurant, and she is a hostess.
I've talked to her about this. She says it's to put money away for her kids (she has 2) but in 2 months at the restaurant, working 3 days a week, she'll probably make 450 bucks. I think she just wants to proceed as normal, as a defense mechanism so her imminent death won't seem so real. I suspect she will have to stop working in the next few weeks. She's looking kinda bad already.
It is a very sad, helpless kinda thing.
I don't have a musical bone in my body (besides my ears, which hear music every day)....I'd love to be able to write songs, though. A friend of mine used to turn my poems into songs, as he is a great musician (and a big PJ fan! We went to Hershey '03 together) but can't write to save his life. I hardly see him anymore, though. Shame, as it was really fun to see my poems set to music.
There are men with grease-covered fingers
Who in shack-like bars
Drink strong whiskey
Night after night
And speak of earthy things
Like work and sports
Cars and overtime
Night after night.
They wear the tattered clothes of toil
And smell like mud and forgotten coffee;
These men with the grease-covered fingers
Don't come and go
(don't change season to season)
And for better or worse
They know the value of a passing hour.
There are wrinkled women with knitting needles
Who in large bay windows sit
As the town becomes cold
And all around them lights go dim
(pull the needle, pull the string).
They watch the cars drive slowly by
While inside their brains
The foggy undercurrent of old age rages
(the broken bones of youth?
the marriages, the foot doctors,
the miserable trips to the beach with the bee stings,
remember?)
And the smells of fried eggs and moth balls
Leak from under their doors;
These sagging women with the knitting needles
Have forgotten what they used to know about time,
And bodies.
And then there is you, T.J., with your
Six-to-eight weeks to live
And your twirling dance 'round the dining room;
Oh how I wish I could know you more
(ask you more questions, tell you more things)
And that time could stop for now.
But it won't
(it doesn't; it never has)
And when your spark arcs over my roof some night
On it's way to where you're going
I hope we can share a brief glance
So you can see me smiling so wide
Mouthing
You lived! You lived!
Seemed to me to be a more concrete image, something she could see--both in her mind now when she reads it, and also in the context of the poem as her spark arcs over my roof. Thoughts?
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
I had the same sorta thought....it's also always seemed vaguely sexual to me.
Having trouble thinking of a substitution though....
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird