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At Supper

At Supper

 

It's impossible to say that one borough of New York City is exactly like another; each teems with it's own life,  it's own atmosphere. Poetry is about finding the beauty in the quotidian, and that's what Michael Waller does in "At Supper," capturing the spirit of a Queens dwindling in twilight.

I wrote this while I was sitting on a log in a forest in Queens; it was my first time ever going there. We passed a Family Dollar on the way there. I guess I had some idea of a cinquefoil from AW02-03 Virginia Creeper. 


Sinking in the cinquefoliage, 
Light melting leaves —
Greys and browns
Skittering refuse;
Granular granola from the Family Squalor store
On the corner of mossgreen moathill.

Brown bagged, now lagged;
Lager spilled about the
Leaves leaves a foam
Like Aphrodite of the sea.

Diffuse light --
Recluse, brown.
Slow ploddingpokingplotting,
Eight arms scuttling.
Tufts on its legs,
Tufts in the North
Tufts at thirteen —
Homonyms and patronyms;
Pale and translucent;
Little scratches on white,
Sun shining in the night.

Michael Waller

Michael Waller lives in New York and in fear of the Singularity. In his writing he explores television, trash, and America. He studies English and Creative Writing at NYU, where he has nurtured a strong disdain for Sinatra since matriculation.


 
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