Adam Fitzgerald

(12/30/1983 / Staten Island, New York)

Lady's Cummerbund

Who is here
and who will bother?

It doesn't matter dear,
remember the run-in with your father?

Yes, I know, but each
sequestered in his unlikely yard

convinced as it were that things are peachy
for the others, only we have it hard.

But only we do. Just think of here.
The makeshift rains, the field-school

closed in un-repair. And down at the pier
a flower-soft beetle drowns in a pool.

Doesn't that all mean something to you honey?
After all the migraine months of fear?

I don't acclimate well to towns squashed by money.
I've forgotten where I placed a certain year.

Next time, with brooms and prisms, can we mount the roof,
skip into the fenced-off idleness of something proud?

Forget the beige recliner. Indian summer's all our proof.
Love's comfort lies in bed, gazing out at lazy clouds.

Submitted: Friday, September 22, 2006
Edited: Saturday, September 18, 2010
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  • Lamont Palmer (8/9/2013 2:58:00 PM)

    I find this poem to be haunting and tinged with dark humor. Fitzgerald's future is very bright. -LP (Report) Reply

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