Poems
by R. Gerry Fabian

 

 

 

Evening Adagio

 

Now at sunset,

a pitcher of iced tea

with several condensation droplets

running down the side

sits on the wooden porch table.

Two empty glasses beside it.

The katydids are just warming up.

 

The slow unison squeaks

of two rocking chairs

joins the quiet chorus.

And then there’s

you

softly holding my hand.

 

 

 

 

 

Meticulously Sly

 

That last tango -

a dark fragrance

beneath cobblestone alleys-

peeling obscure band posters-

in soiled black pumps.

 

A beauty beyond slavery -

tear- stained mascara-

a crushed rose petal conscience

riddled with the turbulence

of old green copper gutters

resolves to set her own terms.

 

 

 

 

 

The Decline of Day Dancing

 

“I am the last day dancer

about to become less.”

 

I am the private eye.

The case to investigate.

On telephone poles

or in parked cars,

the secrets become extinct.

 

As a statue,

by day,

there is very little exhibition

permitted.

 

I see too well

or so, it seems.

Always my smiles are tight,

ready to frown if necessary.

 

Only at celebrations,

private or public,

do I day dance

and even then

it is in anxious anticipation

of night.

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