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Plaza.

PLAZA

   Everyone's half
   listening to the people
   they're not
   with. Eavesdropping
   like trying to lasso
   something. Late Thursday,
   bombarded
   by sunlight, if for
   no other reason you
   feel reassured
   by the shops' exactness--
   lawns totally
   dominated, a few
   mallards beside
   the army-surplus green
   pools. The bungalow
   theme may be
   overstated, but it
   has powers
   of suggestion. I mean,
   I'm absolutely
   thinking about the
   sea. I'm ready
   to look up and see
   the wince of
   the stars. I thought
   it was profound if
   the girls came
   here, if they called it
   a mode of
   tyranny. But
   that's probably
   something I should have
   said years
   ago, and in Old English
   lettering on my
   back. Am I
   supposed to have
   some sexless
   confidence called being
   a husband? Are all
   the vows in
   one room, and does
   the room smell like
   mustard? The birds
   seem frisky
   today. They
   storm each table with
   an almost toxic
   thoroughness.
   The way you do all
   this is first
   by imitating someone
   else and then coming
   clean about the
   imitation. If you
   could have done us
   the courtesy of
   adding twenty
   more minutes to the
   film--a last
   scene or two that
   shows the pedantry
   that comes
   after. I want
   to concentrate on
   the fly's slowness,
   especially as it
   makes sense of
   sucralose. I can't
   believe how
   loud those
   girls are. Fountains,
   if you look at
   them long
   enough, look like
   a girl's legs on
   a treadmill. Hibiscus
   like fists. I can't
   believe that
   there are this many
   underweight ducks, and
   I wonder if they've
   overheard us, if
   they've caught on too
   well. All I
   can offer is the
   appropriate
   terminology. Silver
   blankets on the
   automobiles, I won't
   say why they
   cover their
   eyes.
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Author:Ciccotelli, Darin
Publication:Colorado Review: A Journal of Contemporary Literature
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2013
Words:284
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