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 ...
For Lori Wagner and Ian Wagner
From the sea, the sun ascended like angels,
its heat sweeping up in bursts of movement,
its tense corona: hot matters to be settled.