Lush Life

By Marne Kilates

  Who would suspect 
  on a sudden slow night 
  like this—
                      when the tap drips 
                      and the dishes clatter 
                      as she picks up after
                                                                    a late repast
  of redone leftovers
                                              and sleep 
                                              is even slower
  after the day's bout 
  with all its 
                          small
                                      deadlines—
                          that
  the world would stop 
  over some slip 
  & sneeze
                        suppressed sob
                                                      long-drawn
                        sigh
  & slide
                into some
                                  forgotten 
                                              guilt
                  minor reproach
                                          hard-kept 
                                                             loss
                                          squeezed
  from under the valves 
  of Coltrane?
  
  (I pour a finger of Torres' 
  robust elixir of grapes, 
  the low light
                            of the lamp 
                            above the stereo
  nests me in)
  These 
                are my parents'
                                                      music
  I half
                      complain — 
                      when
                                        the world was swing 
                                        but I sought
                      them out
                                                                (remastered memory)
                      among the shelves 
                      of the record store
  
  & the word                         Weltschmerz
                keeps                        eluding
                                    me

  when Tyner's brittle pain
                                                    confirms
                   Hartman's last
                                                        coda
                                            I live the lush life 
                                            in some small dive...
  
  and she, done 
  with the kitchen remains 
  of our repast of redone
                                                          leftovers,
  wakes me gently
                                            from the sofa:

                                                                          Come
  to bed, it's more comfortable


                                        for Joey Salgado, on his 44th Birthday
                                        March 8, 2006
  

Pictures as Poems & Other (Re)Visions (UST Publishing)