Read Online Aimless Love by Billy Collins - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Billy Collins
Ads: Link
window,
shadow of my crooked pen on the page,
and I find myself wishing that the news of my death
might be delivered not by a dark truck
but by a child’s attempt to draw that truck—
the long rectangular box of the trailer,
some lettering on the side,
then the protruding cab, the ovoid wheels,
maybe the inscrutable profile of a driver,
and puffs of white smoke
issuing from the tailpipe, drawn like flowers
and similar in their expression to the clouds in the sky, only smaller.
What She Said
When he told me he expected me to pay for dinner,
I was like give me a break.
I was not the exact equivalent of give me a break.
I was just similar to give me a break.
As I said, I was like give me a break.
I would love to tell you
how I was able to resemble give me a break
without actually being identical to give me a break,
but all I can say is that I sensed
a similarity between me and give me a break.
And that was close enough
at that point in the evening
even if it meant I would fall short
of standing up from the table and screaming
Give me a break,
for God’s sake will you please give me a break?!
No, for that moment
with the rain streaking the restaurant windows
and the waiter approaching,
I felt the most I could be was like
to a certain degree
give me a break.
Drawing You from Memory
I seem to have forgotten several features
crucial to the doing of this,
for instance, how your lower lip
meets your upper lip besides just being below it,
and what happens at the end of the nose,
how much does it shade the plane of your cheek,
and would even a bit of nostril be visible from this angle?
Chinese eyes, you call them
which could be the difficulty I have
in showing the flash of light in your iris,
and being so far away from you for so long,
I cannot remember what direction
it flows, the deep river of your hair.
But all of this will come together
the minute I see you again at the station,
my notebook and pens packed away,
your face smiling as I cup it in my hands,
or frowning later when we are home
and you are berating me in the kitchen
waving the pages in my face
demanding to know the name of this latest little whore.
Cemetery Ride
My new copper-colored bicycle
is looking pretty fine under a blue sky
as I pedal along one of the sandy paths
in the Palm Cemetery here in Florida,
wheeling past the headstones of the Lyons,
the Campbells, the Dunlaps, and the Davenports,
Arthur and Ethel, who outlived him by 11 years
I slow down even more to notice,
but not so much as to fall sideways on the ground.
And here’s a guy named Happy Grant
next to his wife Jean in their endless bed.
Annie Sue Simms is right there and sounds
a lot more fun than Theodosia S. Hawley.
And good afternoon, Emily Polasek
and to you too, George and Jane Cooper,
facing each other in profile, two sides of a coin.
I wish I could take you all for a ride
in my wire basket on this glorious April day,
not a thing as simple as your name, Bill Smith,
even trickier then Clarence Augustus Coddington.
Then how about just you, Enid Parker?
Would you like to gather up your voluminous skirts
and ride side-saddle on the crossbar
and tell me what happened between 1863 and 1931?
I’ll even let you ring the silver bell.
But if you’re not ready, I can always ask
Mary Brennan to rise from her long sleep
beneath the swaying grey beards of Spanish moss
and ride with me along these halls of the dead
so I can listen to her strange laughter
as some crows flap overhead in the blue
and the spokes of my wheels catch the dazzling sun.
Lakeside
As optical illusions go
it was one of the more spectacular,
a cluster of bright stars
appearing to move across the night sky
as if on a secret mission
while, of course, it was the low clouds
that were doing the moving,
scattered over my head by a wind from the east.
And as hard as I looked
I could not get the stars to budge again.
It was like the curious figure
of
shadow of my crooked pen on the page,
and I find myself wishing that the news of my death
might be delivered not by a dark truck
but by a child’s attempt to draw that truck—
the long rectangular box of the trailer,
some lettering on the side,
then the protruding cab, the ovoid wheels,
maybe the inscrutable profile of a driver,
and puffs of white smoke
issuing from the tailpipe, drawn like flowers
and similar in their expression to the clouds in the sky, only smaller.
What She Said
When he told me he expected me to pay for dinner,
I was like give me a break.
I was not the exact equivalent of give me a break.
I was just similar to give me a break.
As I said, I was like give me a break.
I would love to tell you
how I was able to resemble give me a break
without actually being identical to give me a break,
but all I can say is that I sensed
a similarity between me and give me a break.
And that was close enough
at that point in the evening
even if it meant I would fall short
of standing up from the table and screaming
Give me a break,
for God’s sake will you please give me a break?!
No, for that moment
with the rain streaking the restaurant windows
and the waiter approaching,
I felt the most I could be was like
to a certain degree
give me a break.
Drawing You from Memory
I seem to have forgotten several features
crucial to the doing of this,
for instance, how your lower lip
meets your upper lip besides just being below it,
and what happens at the end of the nose,
how much does it shade the plane of your cheek,
and would even a bit of nostril be visible from this angle?
Chinese eyes, you call them
which could be the difficulty I have
in showing the flash of light in your iris,
and being so far away from you for so long,
I cannot remember what direction
it flows, the deep river of your hair.
But all of this will come together
the minute I see you again at the station,
my notebook and pens packed away,
your face smiling as I cup it in my hands,
or frowning later when we are home
and you are berating me in the kitchen
waving the pages in my face
demanding to know the name of this latest little whore.
Cemetery Ride
My new copper-colored bicycle
is looking pretty fine under a blue sky
as I pedal along one of the sandy paths
in the Palm Cemetery here in Florida,
wheeling past the headstones of the Lyons,
the Campbells, the Dunlaps, and the Davenports,
Arthur and Ethel, who outlived him by 11 years
I slow down even more to notice,
but not so much as to fall sideways on the ground.
And here’s a guy named Happy Grant
next to his wife Jean in their endless bed.
Annie Sue Simms is right there and sounds
a lot more fun than Theodosia S. Hawley.
And good afternoon, Emily Polasek
and to you too, George and Jane Cooper,
facing each other in profile, two sides of a coin.
I wish I could take you all for a ride
in my wire basket on this glorious April day,
not a thing as simple as your name, Bill Smith,
even trickier then Clarence Augustus Coddington.
Then how about just you, Enid Parker?
Would you like to gather up your voluminous skirts
and ride side-saddle on the crossbar
and tell me what happened between 1863 and 1931?
I’ll even let you ring the silver bell.
But if you’re not ready, I can always ask
Mary Brennan to rise from her long sleep
beneath the swaying grey beards of Spanish moss
and ride with me along these halls of the dead
so I can listen to her strange laughter
as some crows flap overhead in the blue
and the spokes of my wheels catch the dazzling sun.
Lakeside
As optical illusions go
it was one of the more spectacular,
a cluster of bright stars
appearing to move across the night sky
as if on a secret mission
while, of course, it was the low clouds
that were doing the moving,
scattered over my head by a wind from the east.
And as hard as I looked
I could not get the stars to budge again.
It was like the curious figure
of
Similar Books
