Barbara F. Lefcowitz
Barbara F. Lefcowitz Poems
|11.||Custodian Of Wild Moments||10/5/2009|
|14.||Beads Of Fire||10/2/2009|
|15.||My Runaway Glasses||10/3/2009|
Comments about Barbara F. Lefcowitz
Summer has arrived too early,
before I’ve even set the table.
It does not apologize. I offer it a drink,
a stack of magazines, but it’s in a
chatty mood, follows me to the kitchen
and warns about the perils of cutting
garlic and onions in full sunlight
tells me a joke about the slashed bagel
that rushed to the ER. I pretend
to laugh, suggest that summer
fold the napkins, count the spoons and forks
but it keeps talking, the noisiest time of the year
with all those raucous bar-be-cues and squealing kids,
acrobatics applauded by ...
It had only a slow and brackish flow.
Every Italian town has at least two or three,
so my failure to recall the fountain
outside the Clio Hotel in Puglia
means nothing beyond a few lazy
possibly dormant memory cells.
But where are my old friends
and why does nobody now here remember me?
Wait. Isn’t that man at the desk vaguely familiar