Sunday, March 9, 2008

This Isn't What I Intended

I was going to write about the Swedish meatballs with dill sauce I had at Little Poland for dinner tonight, and about Lori and Dave, visiting NYC from North Carolina, but I got sidetracked. When I returned to Connecticut from my afternoon in the city, I accidentally drank a bottle of Pinot Grigiot, and now I don't feel like describing the sauce, which was the oleaginous element binding the whole idea together. Another alcohol related tragedy, I guess.

Anyway here is a poem I wrote ten years ago about my friend Michael, who first introduced me to Little Poland.

We haven't spoken for a while, and I think he now works as an artifact in a museum in Berlin.


Because of all we have
Committed to the fire,
I seldom kiss your thigh
Without a faint desire

To put a period
To these pointless affairs
Where the sex is so exquisite,
Nobody really cares.


Anonymous said...

I would like this better if there weren't 'caps' at the beginning of each line, but this has a good flow, you

Shropshirelad said...

I will think about that. It seems like a very sensible suggestion, Sarah.