Lamont Palmer Poems
Suicide In An Old House
Death surrounds us with blatant arms.
A sanitation worker dies and no one
cares, but banshee phones striking at midnight,
summoning the equally unknown people
to altars of rancor and resignation.
What do they do but recognize a human
in the grip of edgy, illegible lives,
the ritualistic mouthing of platitudes,
cold and incurable as dry, winter snow?
Bleak living room. Soon the owner won't live
in the area for living, the area's dark aria -
a moment of meth, mirth and minions.
Take that bystreet to oblivion,
to namelessness, to ...
Motel Clerk: Dusk
So much, so little under
the barometer of lonely light;
waves have hit a silence,
before the morning grasping, and just
after the sun gets up
(reminding me of an O’Hara poem)
intractable, through the hidden fury