I’m no longer
a Manhattan with rye,
the suit with one sugar cube, or
the skirt
garnished with a cherry. I’m no longer
eligible to mix
it up on the East Coast. But
visits taken black
filled to the brim
still carry me home.
Author: Arambler
I’ve Sent the Adverbs into Exile
Packed into a cardboard box
with ly’s dangling
from gaps between
the flaps. I’m done with action
that can’t justify
itself. If an escalator squeaks,
let it squeak. If a cat scratches,
let it. If the box
gets returned to sender
because exile has no zipcode,
let it sit on the stoop
till I’m ready
to unpack it—slowly
cutting off those letters first.
Downtown to Uptown
To me, this doesn’t rhyme:
“And the rural route
I can never get out.”*
Last day before daylight
saving time is a spoiler
for spring. First long walk
of the year
without a jacket
unveils last fall’s
aroma being transmitted
from the ground.
Moving away
from the river, I wonder
how saudade can get so landlocked.
Everyone who came
to my birthday party
at the Uptown Bar and Café
that first year
to drink Jägermeister
and beer is dead—
including the Uptown—save me.
* Darin Wald, “Not to Me” (from Big Ditch Road’s Ring)
Rose Wash March Sky
A paint lab, energy
substation, master
space plan mapping
more than a backyard
newsroom—the day
gets done without
losing a square
foot of roof
garden produce. Someone will
still push the clock
ahead 32 hours
from now. Even urban
farmers need
space to dream.
Born Into a Country in Mourning
A basketball left
on a playground half
covered in snow—the view
through the chain
link fence. A typo
in a blog entry posted late
at night—the view
through cleared morning
vision. A mannequin wears
a flowing dress with white
lilies over a background
the color of the inside
of a grapefruit—the view
across an empty plaza. The lipstick
I leave on
this ceramic coffee mug
is the only view
I can touch.
Homesick for Major Deegan Exit 11
Digital monsters
with moustaches, power
outlets in the café
floor, the names
we never got
right—that door
ought to be
locked. Or, then, not
at all. Why did this
way get invented
if no one is
allowed to go
this way? That
would be called
the last
exits to exist.
When Corlear Avenue Was Home
No recipes for Pinterest. No nails
for the resurrection
of Washington
Avenue. It’s really a boulevard
without the reach
of Broadway. I remember
the way I lived
in the Bronx. That elevated #1
line dropped shadows,
then hints, of the plains
I might choose to cross
before decades erased
my interest
in pins and collage.
Shakes
When a building gets braided
before the roof settles, who can
predict how high
the electric fence
will need to be. And she’s come to
under the wire
often enough to care.
Each measure is always longer
than it sounds.
A Debt That Lasts
A lifetime, a generation
without Neil Young
to thank. A gratitude
expressed in color
rather than words, a dictionary
left open to the page
where trust gets its due,
truth comes alive.
Landlock
When red
umbrellas bleed
in a late winter rain, all the girls
she used to be
parade down streets
in their yellow slickers and fisherman’s
sou’westers. And who she is
now follows behind
with a tin pail to capture
her favorite
colors before they run
into the gutter.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 