Friday, July 17, 2009

Blind Review Friday

Blind Review Friday.

The author shall remain anonymous (unless they chose to divulge themselves in the comments.)

Those commenting are also welcome to remain anonymous if they wish.

Incendiary comments will be removed.

If you would like your piece thrown to the wolves send it to with "Workshop the hell out of this poem" as the subject line.

This week's offering is from a Cleveland poetics blog regular.

The Summer Before College

In a colorless uniform I rode my bicycle
to the brand new Holiday Inn.
Solitary hours of changing sheets
and dusting faux surfaces,

of double-checking for a rogue hair
on the sink. I'd stare at a pair of hiking boots,
a men's magazine, a used condom
and imagine who had been there,

what they had been doing.
Silence weighed my body down
and magnified the loneliness,
so one August day I pushed the door shut,

turned on the television and sat on a bed
to watch Richard Nixon resign,
breaking the rules to witness
that singular shameful moment.

Days of laundry duty, the drone
of dryers, blinding white towels
folding when I closed my eyes at night.
The radio played the first time ever I saw your face

over and over and the music spun yearning
into my eighteen-year old heart.
That was when songs made decisions for me
and at 4:00 on that same day I said I quit.


Shelley Chernin said...

Thank you. A very enjoyable, nostalic ride for me.

I like that you landed someplace that I didn't see coming (the effect of the music on the radio), but know so well. "That was when songs made decisions for me" ia a wonderful line.

Something about "singular shameful moment" just doesn't capture the feeling of Nixon's resignation for me. Not sure what the word "singular" adds, and the phrase is more judgment than feeling. I wonder what the 18-year-old sitting on the bed felt. Personally, I remember cheering loudly.

Geoffrey A. Landis said...

Yes, I agree, "That was when songs made decisions for me," is a great line, because it's so true.

I like the sibilance of "singular and shameful."


The poet doesn't invent. He listens. ~Jean Cocteau