For Monica

[bwasroy]

You are old now.

Almost thirty, sitting in a bar off Broad Street
finally talking of the tally of the dark years.

Afraid of some ghost gathered
under the light of the blue hotel,
you keep looking back over your shoulder
and ask in a voice reproachful and low,
about a woman you heard I left,
but because I have not made sense of things,
I laugh in denial and phrase my response
to sound as if we departed friends.

There was a doll our mother bought
which hummed Mary Had A Little Lamb.
For years you could not sleep until you heard it,
which was all I could think of that day,
a decade later, when we sat in the woods
as teenagers and you asked what I knew of love.

In your hair a long dark lock
falls to the tattoos you have a hidden,
as we rise and clamor into the night.

We leave again – we were always
leaving each other with not enough said -
to your car with a rattling axle,
which you park on a side street,
where up the stairs, past all understanding,
your eyes have grown dark and wide like our mother.

So, listen. I am thirty now.
I always felt strange. I learned to live with it.
I felt alone at times. Others, I felt scared.
I know that I loved a handful of women.
I know, also, that it did not good.

[QDeathstar]

You are old now.

Almost thirty, sitting in a bar off Broad Street
finally talking of the tally of the dark years. pretty plain? The dark years? Is this a reference to Obama's term as president? If not, let us know!

Afraid of some ghost gathered ghosts? or a comma? Or the line break is in the wrong place
under the light of the blue hotel, a lot of the's here. Also, this lacks description. "under flicking light from the blue hotel". Also, why blue?
you keep looking back over your shoulder
and ask in a voice reproachful and low, a lot of ands, if you rearranged this so that the descriptors were in front of the action it would flow better
about a woman you heard I left,
but because I have not made sense of things,
I laugh in denial and phrase my response
to sound as if we departed friends.

There was a doll our mother bought
which hummed Mary Had A Little Lamb.
For years you could not sleep until you heard it,
which was all I could think of that day,
a decade later, when we sat in the woods
as teenagers and you asked what I knew of love. is she your sister?

In your hair a long dark lock
falls to the tattoos you have a hidden, a hidden?
as we rise and clamor into the night.

We leave again – we were always
leaving each other with not enough said -
to your car with a rattling axle,
which you park on a side street,
where up the stairs, past all understanding,
your eyes have grown dark and wide like our mother.

So, listen. I am thirty now.
I always felt strange. I learned to live with it.
I felt alone at times. Others, I felt scared.
I know that I loved a handful of women.
I know, also, that it did not good. did not good?

I really like the images and thought in the middle, which was the strongest. I am bitter about the fact though, that i wasted my time reading this poem to end up with the last stanza. Thats a long way to go to get to what essentially says nothing.

[bwasroy]

Deathstar, you nailed it. I'm also discontent with the last verse. I don't think I know how to get out of the poem yet.