After the Blizzard

I used to get up early and take pictures of the sunrise on a regular basis. This morning, at 6:45, I stumbled to the window and shot these. I wrote this poem last October at the same time of morning.

Thursday, 6:29:45

Sunrise.
One jogger shuffles by
his legs grow stronger every morning
He will do something useful today,
while my hours explode with words

I stare down at the water, emptiness
summoned insomnia, they hid pebbles
in my bed, sleep has abandoned me again

So I write a thousand poems
So I snap a hundred pictures

Lean further out the window each morning,
one tit falls out of my tiger print nightgown,
as I point and shoot, point and shoot
at Long Island City, at Jimmy’s house,
at the Williamsburg Bridge, at the East River

Every second is new light;
I am the delegated witness
to days that begin despite themselves

Last night I met a guy I probably knew,
reminisced about dope fiends, thieves and poets,
shooting galleries, toy shotguns, unmarked cabs,
he kissed me good-bye, said if you ever need me
Puma, I’m there,I don’t remember what that means
but I remember the mornings on Third Street
when the birds carried slingshots and the sun
never rose on a waking hour, nobody slept,
we just nodded out on a good day, afraid
to go to sleep because we knew we’d wake up sick

7:28:32
I move the table back against the wall.
A light flicks off across the way, the man
who sees my tit each morning goes to work;
he will also do something useful as I load
another hundred photos into the computer,
searching for the one that captured the smell
of mustard seeds and hope, heat, sky, today
but perfection eludes me once again

So I write more poems
So I’ll take more pictures
Point and shoot, point and shoot
at rivers, sunrise, bridges, buildings
until I sweep the pebbles from the bed
and leave the witnessing to gods
and other babbling fools

© puma perl, 10/22/09