Old English 800 And A Bag Of Pretzels Poem by Shannon Walker

Escalator, stop...
Let the malt-liquor light
Of this Autumn afternoon
Never fade;
My slight drunkenness to remain,
Not grow, or ebb away,
But lie gently on me
The way this Tropicana sun,
At 30 degrees, does,
Sifted through the brown fluttering leaves
Of the eucalyptus tree
Outside my window.

Stop...
Let the carousel music
Of the 1974 van conversion
Peddling ice cream in the street
Continue to play
All afternoon, not drive away
With the sound of a screeching water pump,
But ring out with laughter
And childish screams
At the end of my stucco building,
Echoing off the bleached yellow walls
That have been growing paler by the day
Since 1963.

Stop...
At the first inch and a half
Of the burning
Cigarette
In my ash tray;
The nicotine pop
Like the smoky sabor
Of frijoles that drift
Down from my neighbor's window
Each and every day,
Overwhelming at first;
But always going away.

Stop, stop, stop...
And let this opulent
Split second in time,
That I'm trying so feverishly hard
To remain in,
Last forever.