A Journey by Train

At East Falls Church I look out the window,

     And notice the way the trees are blushing,

     Fall’s always like this, and I’m always rushing;

The train gives a lurch at East Falls Church.

At Dunn Loring I’m still thinking of you,

     And dreaming of times when we were together;

     I’m framed by your loss, this train, and black weather;

And something is roaring at Dunn Loring.

At Foggy Bottom old folks on the train;

     Against a gray sky, gray geese are flying;

     Whenever we’re living, we’re also dying.

My mood is all autumn, at Foggy Bottom.

Stuck between stations, the tunnel is dark as the womb.

     Breathing in silence, so close to each other,

     I miss you more now than this time last year, lover;

Such is my ration stuck between stations.

At Capitol South I heard the truth:

    The old waitress said “You should be more forgiving;

    Whenever we’re dying, we’re still also living.’

At Capitol South she made me dry in the mouth.

At West Falls Church I pick up my journal,

     And jot down some notes on a poem I’m writing,

     The houses are tasteful, with pastel siding,

And geese on the verge at West Falls Church.

At Vienna Square, my mood becomes lighter.

     An hour ago, I would not be believing,

     That one hour later I wouldn’t be grieving

That no one is there at Virginia Square.

© Larry Haworth (2/20/2014)

At The Coffee Shop

The Portuguese are waiting

for nothing to happen.

It usually does

about this time.

They sit with coffee, with cigarettes

and argue in their rich tongue.

It sounds fun to speak;

round, and filling the mouth.

Tired tame sun

lies panting on the Lucite;

two feet dip in its liquid fur.

They are a boy’s.

He slouches back

and fishes for his quarters.

It’s time.

The talk spills on

It pools and rises

It laps the encircling walls

I slip my leash

and swim among

the Frogger sounds, the Donkey Kong

and the clear

Mediterranean noise.

© Larry Haworth 1983

The Journey

I never catch them at it

just suddenly

it’s dark enough

and everything has changed.

The roadside elm starts it

when he rises up to warn me back

with pale raised arms

then the pleased humming look

of berry bushes

like fat friars

about to get their way

and the artful way the grass has

of sprigging about their feet, like parsley.

Even this clean road

rests lightly in its groove

quiet in pursuit of its objectives:

ramps, turnoffs, towns.

Six slick tires

spin tight circles

over black tarmac

roaring away behind

lakes appear, cast copper coins

then a town, then no town, past

then another, where

all things are changing hats and habits

(they’re really at it, now)

The garden rake

tines up

waits for feet

the garden hose

wriggles

in arch new complicity

as a barn wood fence, that knows better

shrugs off domestic duty, lights a fag

and slouches at his post

they all

wink at me, then

look away, looking busy.

Even my watch keeps a secret. Yet

I’ll get there. This trip

will superficially resemble

its sunlit brothers, will deposit me

where I claim I want to go.

I look far up into the rumpled hills

(darker than the sky)

Where tiny, bright, the lamps that dreamed

coiled above our heads all day

refuse to say tonight

if they shelter in their staring skirts

the same house I left his morning.

The bus rumbles. I do not trust this road

making its move at last from the valley’s nadir

up into the heights. But I have no choice:

I want no other.

© Larry Haworth 1983

A Meeting

Night. Greasy rainbows

swim in alley pools. Fragile glories

reveal themselves like a priceless heart

hidden in costume jewels.

At the feet of gray tin garbage cans

the cabbage leaf and fish head

hold their tête-à-tête. I am coming.

Silent as the city,

trotting on tiny feet.

Soul of the city;

It’s epigram;

Nonchalant

and selfish.

Moving towards you, I

who passed all else by.

The rain upon the pavement

is like a black rubber rain slicker.

The alley’s red brick face

is a face of authority,

a cop.

When you pass this way by daylight

it will all be addresses,

acts and facts;

the bricks are made of bricky mud,

the cop waits for his bus.

Is this all that it is-

that we keep different hours

or different hours keep us?

Dawn. The sky creaks open.

Swim up from your dreams,

I am coming.

Soon you will proffer, and I accept

the chipped blue bowl of cream.

You kneel down in pink terrycloth;

I look up and purr.

My pink tongue rasps your thumb,

I fill your palm with fur.

© Larry Haworth 1983